


Look For Me

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Find me spoilers, Jealous Oliver, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Sex, based partially on Find Me, jealous elio, married oliver, sex with feelings, the happy ending is for Oliver and Elio of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-07-10 03:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 28,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19899049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: Years after their summer together, Oliver and Elio have moved on with their lives. Or have they?They meet at Oliver’s farewell party. They reconnect.Does true love ever die?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you know, I have read Aciman’s new book, Find Me. 
> 
> I was itching to write a story after that, because as usual Aciman can charm me but also infuriate me to no end, and so I wanted to give my own spin to what might have happened later in the lives of Elio and Oliver. 
> 
> Please note, this story will have little spoilers from the new book. Aside from what we already know - like Oliver being married and Elio having a much older partner, I am not going to use much more details from the new instalment. Perhaps only one more, which I’m not going to mention here. 
> 
> But the rest is going to be my own story - so if you want, you’ll be safe to read this even if you haven’t read the new book. 
> 
> As always, Elio and Oliver in this story will have their happy ending together, just like in all my other stories.

Even though he did not want to admit it, Elio did believe in coincidences. 

How could he explain, otherwise, the invite they received, to a party in New York City, in the middle of their vacation in the States? 

And not just that. It was Oliver’s party.  His farewell party. He was leaving his teaching job at Columbia, to go back to New England, where he was from. 

“Are you sure you want to go?” Michel asked. He was driving, but the road ahead of them, in the middle of Vermont, was empty, especially at that time of the evening, and so he kept his eyes on Elio for a moment longer. 

“Yeah. Why not,” Elio said, and smiled at him. “We were going to go to New York anyway, we’ll just be there a day early, that’s all.”

Michel raised his eyebrows. There was grey in them, too, just like in his hair; but Elio liked it. ‘Sale e pepe’, his mom had called it when she met him, when she met Michel. ‘Brizzolato’ is what Elio would have said. Men looked good when they turned grey. They were fascinating, they were mysterious. Elio liked it. 

“It’s fine,” Elio added, sensing that there was more to come from Michel’s mouth. He reached out with his hand to change the cd. He slipped a burned copy of Red Hot Chili Peppers into the player. It was good music for driving to. 

Out of the corner of Elio’s eye, Michel just nodded, his eyes now on the road. He was frowning, and so Elio knew he was still thinking about it; but he didn’t add anything else. 

Elio just looked outside, at the sprawling panorama of greens and yellows, and the grey-ish of the road, and breathed. 

Their hotel in Gramercy was really nice, really comfortable. Michel was a lawyer, and so he earned good money, he’d always done, and he insisted on paying for the two of them more often than not. He was to retire, that fall. He talked about it enthusiastically, mentioning the hobbies and free time and travelling that he was looking forward to; but Elio knew he was also a little bit heartbroken. Work had taken so much of his life; had been his life, at least until a year prior, according to what Michel said. A year ago, he’d met Elio, and they’d gotten together, and Michel said that he now realised he needed more time for himself, to dedicate himself to his young partner, to make the most of their time together. To make sure Elio never felt alone or neglected. 

Elio liked being pampered like that. Being coddled, knowing that Michel was happy to tend to him. Michel being retired was going to be a major change, was going to be a full-on experience - but Elio was looking forward to it.  Michel was going to ask him to move in with him; Elio planned to say yes. 

When they arrived at the hotel, and once they checked in, Michel started unpacking right away. 

He was very neat; he liked tidiness. Elio wasn’t tidy, never had been, although he thought he’d gotten better with the years - he’d always told Michel he would eventually get tired of Elio’s carelessness with things and leave him. But every time he said this Michel chuckled, shook his head, flicked his nose gently with his index finger. ‘I’m not going to leave you,’ he would say. 

This time, while Michel unpacked, Elio went into the shower. It was warm in New York City, and he felt sticky, wanted to wash the travel from his body. 

And only a couple of minutes later, Michel came into the bathroom, too. Stepped into the shower - and Elio was expecting it, smiled at his back as he faced the shower wall, and let Michel’s hands lather up his curls, washing them and then stroking down Elio’s slim back, down to the two little dimples at the base of his spine, down between his thighs. Michel was kissing the side of his neck, and Elio placed his palms against the tile wall, closed his eyes. Let his older lover worship him. 

Oliver lived in Manhattan. In a modest, yet really nice apartment on the Upper East Side. 

Elio had never been there before, of course. When they’d met, five years prior, it had happened in Oliver’s office at Columbia and it had been quick, almost in passing. 

_Hi, how are you, this is where I work. These are my kids, in the pictures._

_I lived in Florence, and in Rome, after I left the States._

_Nice, well; don’t disappear again_. 

They had both disappeared again from each other’s lives - it just happened, and, Elio supposed, he wasn’t surprised. He had expected it. There was a whole ocean between them now that he lived in Paris; Oliver was married, had two children. Even if they’d tried harder, it wouldn’t have been easy anyway, keeping in touch. 

Seeing Oliver, five years ago, had made him sad. Made him remember how much he missed him - not that he’d ever forgotten. He’d gone back to his apartment; he’d sat for a while, with tears in his eyes. It had been the shock of seeing him again, the shock of seeing that his marriage, his children, were all real. 

But this time, it would be different. Elio had Michel, now. When his father had received Oliver’s invitation in the post, and he’d asked Elio to attend on behalf of him, too, Elio had said, ‘sure. Michel and I will be in the States, we were planning on going to New York, anyway.’

And Michel knew about Oliver.  Elio had been open with him. _He was my first; he taught me everything._

Michel had smiled, light, nodded; said ‘so he’s the standard I’ll be judged against.’ 

Elio had said nobody was judging anyone. He wasn’t comparing.

After their shower, Elio walked back to the bedroom to get dressed - his clothes plucked straight from his suitcase, ignoring Michel’s gentle, amused chastising that everything would get wrinkled. He wore dark blue trousers and a cream shirt; Michel smiled at him. Told him he looked so handsome. 

Elio hoped he really did. 

A lady came to open the door when they arrived. 

“Oliver!” She called back inside the house. “Sorry. He asked me to let him know when his friend Elio got here.”

She was smiley, and so Elio smiled back. His heart was beating faster, but he knew it was simply because he hadn’t seen Oliver in a long time. He turned towards Michel, who smiled at him, and held his hand on the small of Elio’s back encouragingly. 

“Elio. You made it.”

Oliver’s eyes were blue, wide, when he appeared to greet them. 

Elio’s heart gave a jump, but he was expecting that. His cheeks felt warmer, but he was expecting that too; he swallowed his hesitation away, and made himself reach out to touch Oliver’s arm. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. This is,” and he turned towards Michel, “this is Michel. Michel, this is Oliver.”

Oliver’s eyes took a moment longer to turn towards Michel. He shook his hand, dutifully, and then moved his gaze back to Elio.  Until the sound of the woman next to them clearing her throat made him blink and look at her. 

“Are you not going to introduce me, honey?” the woman asked, her eyes - blue, too, but cloudy, not as clear as Oliver’s - eyeing him questioningly. 

“Sorry, sorry. Elio, this is my wife, Micol.”

“Now come in,” Micol said, her smile back to normal, stepping aside to let them enter the room. Elio felt Michel’s palm still on his back, guiding him gently. He held his hands hidden in his pockets, looked down as they followed Oliver and Micol to the living room. He made himself take a deep breath. 

It was all fine. All fine. Just how it was supposed to be. 


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver’s apartment might be small, but it could fit quite a lot of people, Elio found a couple of hours later. 

So many of Oliver’s friends and acquaintances arrived after them. Some were already there; all, it seemed, wanted to speak to Oliver. Elio had hardly even seen him since they’d arrived. 

It was for the best, he told himself. He’d wanted to say hi to Oliver, but since he’d seen him a strange, uncomfortable feeling had taken hold inside his body. He didn’t know what it was; but he found he couldn’t concentrate on what this person or that one were telling him. Could not care to listen to what the next guest was saying to Michel. 

He wanted some air, and so he excused himself, walked to the small balcony out of the living room. For a smoke, he told Michel, when the older man looked at him, asked him if he was okay. Elio gave him a small smile, told him he’d be back soon. 

The air was crispier, now that it was later in the night. New York glittered and buzzed for miles under the balcony on the seventh floor of the building. It was just like Elio remembered it; it would never change. 

“Elio.”

Oliver’s voice was a surprise, then, even though Elio could not lie to himself. He’d been hoping to be able to speak to Oliver again. He was at his house, after all; they were probably not going to see each other again for years, just like last time. 

“Mind if I have a cigarette, too?”

Elio nodded, quickly, corners of his mouth turned up just a little, to let Oliver know he really didn’t mind. He took a drag from his own cigarette, looking back out at the New York skyline. 

“I’m glad you came,” Oliver said. 

Elio swallowed.

“When are you leaving?”

“Ah. Still two months to go. But Micol wanted to have this get together early, a lot of people leave for the summer once classes are over and don’t come back until September.”

Elio chanced a look towards him, and then took one last puff from his cigarette, turned back towards the view from outside. 

“When do you leave?” Oliver threw his question back at him. 

“In a week. Michel and I are on a road trip. Sort of. We’re going to sightsee a little in the City, he’s only been here once before in his life. He’s French,” Elio shrugged. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Oliver nod. Slowly. 

“How long have you two been together?”

“Eight months.”

Oliver nodded again. 

“A teacher?”

“No. He’s a lawyer.”

Elio wanted to tell Oliver that he knew what he was thinking - that he knew he was thinking that Michel was so much older, too old for Elio. 

But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t dare. He felt too nervous to.

He didn’t know why Oliver would actually care about that. 

There was a pause. A moment of silence, in which Elio felt Oliver’s eyes on him, and he didn’t dare move, he didn’t dare turn around, either, he pretended to be interested in the glittering skyline and that he hadn’t noticed he was being watched, because he didn’t know what to do with that. What did it even mean. 

And then, Oliver made it even worse. 

“You look beautiful tonight.”His voice was warm, and almost a whisper. Elio’s heart, suddenly, beat fast, almost in his throat.

What was this? Why could he never control himself, when he was around Oliver? 

Elio did the only thing he could do. He refused to look at Oliver, kept his eyes on the horizon. 

“I look the same as five years ago.”

“You look the same as when we first met.”

Elio rolled his eyes - but it wasn’t a criticism, and there was no mirth. It was his way of showing displeasure. And he knew Oliver could read it.

“Five years ago I had - things in my mind”, Oliver said, as a way to explain, after a beat. Elio turned towards him, finding Oliver looking at him, his expression strange. Unguarded, but tentative. 

“And you don’t, now?” Elio didn’t save the sarcasm from his voice. 

He was both waiting for Oliver to answer, and regretting his question, all the same. He hadn’t meant for their reunion to go this way. It sounded too much like an argument. And why were they arguing, anyway? 

“Oliver?” 

Micol’s voice. Elio nearly jumped; he tore his gaze from Oliver’s eyes, looked back out at the night. 

“They want to do a toast for us,” Micol said. She was looking at the both of them, and Elio, feeling restless, moved his gaze to the floor. Then back up at Oliver. 

“I need to go and find Michel,” he said. And, with a tight, perfunctory smile towards Micol, he walked past her, back inside the apartment. 

He felt his cheeks, no, his whole body, burning with embarrassment as soon as he was back beside his lover, as soon as Michel’s arm was back around his waist. 

He hadn’t meant for his conversation with Oliver to go so sour. How did it even happen? How? 

He was fine. He was happy. He didn’t have anything to blame Oliver for.  No, it wasn’t that. 

He had been angry at Oliver, yes, but he was past that now. He’d grown up. He had his own life, and a partner who loved him, and whom he loved, and Oliver had had his own life for years now. They had moved on. What was there to be angry about? Why did he have to go and make things tense? 

“You alright?” Michel asked, smiling at him gently. In the background, the guests were cheering for Micol and Oliver. 

Elio swallowed, and made himself smile at Michel. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go?”

Elio bit his lip. He considered. Yes, perhaps it was best to leave.

“Yes,” he nodded, took Michel’s hand in his. 

Michel was the one who found Micol - they could not leave without saying goodbye to the hosts, after all. Elio let himself be led by him, trying to keep a smile on his face. 

It was all fine, it was just how it was meant to be. It was just his damn mind playing tricks on him again, making him think too much. 

“Oliver! Come say goodbye,” Micol called - and Elio steeled himself. He was overreacting. 

Nothing had happened. 

He smiled at Oliver when he approached them, by the door. After thanking them for coming, and hugging them briefly, Micol had gone back to her guests - so it was just the three of them, now. 

“Before you go,” Oliver said. He was looking at Michel. “Before you go, could I speak to Elio? For a moment?”

The implication of ‘alone’ was blatant - and so was Elio’s surprise at the request. He was quick enough not to let it show too obviously; he just looked to Michel, waiting for his reaction. 

“Ah, I guess, yeah, sure, I’ll - I’ll be here,” Michel replied, surprise evident in his voice, too. 

Oliver smiled at him; and then motioned with his head to Elio, gently, for him to follow him into the next room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments to the first chapter! Please keep letting me know what you feel x


	3. Chapter 3

When Elio arrived, Oliver could not believe he hadn’t even considered the possibility of him not coming on his own. 

Now, as he stole glances in the direction of the boy, after their conversation on the balcony, he cursed himself silently. How could he not? Why did he assume Elio would still be alone? 

He was young, beautiful, intelligent. He was independent, and spirited. Did Oliver really, in the back of his mind, subconsciously, think that Elio would still be pining and saving himself for Oliver - in the name of something they had so many years ago? 

That was stupid, stupid. Oliver set his jaw, lowered his gaze to the glass of whisky in his hand. 

Elio was on a trip to the US, and would soon be going back home to Paris. This was the only chance they had at a proper reunion, and Oliver had already ruined it. 

He wasn’t going to see Elio again. 

And so, when Micol called him to say goodbye to the boy and his partner, her precise, polite, by-the-book ways ever present, Oliver walked over, a mixture of screams in his head to not do anything stupid, and yet to do whatever it took to talk to Elio again. 

He addressed Michel. He hated having to ask his permission to speak to Elio - but he felt he must. The man had his hand on Elio’s waist; Oliver moved his eyes away. “Before you go,” he said, didn’t dare chance a look to Elio. “Before you go, may I speak to Elio? For a moment?”

The room was warm, and Oliver wished he had something to drink. He heard Elio sigh, the boy standing in front of him, by the table - waiting. 

“Elio, I,” Oliver started. “I’m sorry, for earlier. It’s not how I wanted the conversation to go.”

Elio blinked. Exhaled.  His eyebrows were still knitted together in a frown. 

“It’s fine.” He said. Shook his head. 

“No, it’s not,” Oliver kept his eyes in Elio’s. “I wanted to speak to you, there was something I wanted to say.” 

Elio held his chin up. His face was serious; his lips tensed together. He was waiting. 

“I have asked Micol for a divorce.” Oliver forced himself to say it in one breath. 

And then he watched, as Elio’s expressive eyes did not fail, once again, to show his full range of emotions. 

Elio took a step back, shook his head in confusion. 

“Divorce? But - I thought you were - I thought you were happy.”

Oliver pursed his lips, looked down for a moment. Cleared his throat. He knew what Elio was thinking. 

“Just because we’ve been together for years, it doesn’t mean we’ve been happy. Or that we are, now.”

He spoke, softly. He knew the parallel with Elio’s parents was too easy. He knew Elio still hoped Samuel and Annella would reconcile. 

And then, Elio’s face tightened; his jaw going rigid. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his chin held high once again. 

And Oliver was at a loss. 

He thought he’d planned this well, but obviously he hadn’t; he hadn’t prepared for any eventuality other than his Elio being there, being happy to see him, being eager for Oliver to go back to him. 

He’d been stupid, and arrogant. Very arrogant. 

He swallowed, looked down for a moment.  Nodded. 

“I hope... I hope that one day you can forgive me.” He looked back up into Elio’s eyes. “I miss you.”

Elio did not respond. His lips, usually full, red, defined - were pushed together into a thin line. His hazel eyes were bright. 

He looked to the side for a moment, and then back to Oliver. 

“If we are done, I - Michel and I need to go. It’s late and we are meeting my mother early in the morning before she goes back to Italy.” Elio’s voice was tense, but quiet. Oliver didn’t know what to respond; and so he didn’t. Didn’t even nod. 

“Goodbye, Oliver,” Elio said. And then, he turned on his heels, and left. 

“Is everything okay,” Michel asked, when Elio joined him on the landing of Oliver’s building. Elio knew his face was still tense, and so he consciously made himself relax his muscles. 

“Everything is okay,” he nodded, then remembered, actually looked at Michel to give him a small smile. The man’s dark eyes still looked at him, carefully, and he took Elio’s hand as he started walking towards the elevator. 

Elio looked down, thought for a moment. He’d never kept anything from Michel. He’d sworn to himself, and to him, that he never would. He wasn’t about to start now. 

“Oliver wanted to tell me that he and his wife are divorcing.”

He felt the change, in the way Michel held his hand. The slight twitch of his fingers as he tightened them around Elio’s own. 

But Elio wasn’t going to lie to him, not even by omission. He was going to tell Michel everything. He was going to let Michel make him promise that he wanted him only. He was going to let Michel fuck him, that night, he was going to tell him that he was his, and nobody else’s. 

And next time they saw Oliver, Elio was going to let Michel hold a hand on his body at all times, on his waist, on his chest, his hand, he was going to let Michel kiss him on the lips and speak for him, order his drinks, announce that they were leaving. He was going to let him do all of this in front of Oliver. 

Next time. 

Elio bit his lip when he realised where his thoughts had gone. 

There wouldn’t be a next time; there didn’t have to be. They would be leaving soon, they were going back to Paris and Oliver was going back to New England. 

Elio needed to stop daydreaming and fantasizing. 

He squeezed Michel’s fingers, held fast on to them as they stepped out into the street. Michel’s eyes were still on him, and so Elio wrapped a hand around the older man’s neck, kissed him. 

Michel held him with an arm around his waist as he flagged down a taxi for them, and guided Elio into it once it pulled up by the curb. 

Elio went willingly; eager to be away, to be somewhere else; to be alone, with Michel and with his thoughts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I’ve been super busy! 
> 
> For who is asking: I was able to read Find Me as I have been giving an advance copy at a Call Me By Your Name screening. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this story! I live for your comments! <3


	4. Chapter 4

Annella seemed better, Elio thought. 

She was smiling again, although her brown eyes had never stopped shining, even during the hard times, velvety and dark like the night. They were just like Elio remembered, since he was a little boy. 

Annella hugged both him and Michel when they said goodbye. She was to travel back to Italy the day after, and, truth be told, Elio was sad. He didn’t even know why; he didn’t live there anymore, he lived in Paris with Michel, and Annella lived in Milan. 

But, he guessed, seeing her in New York reminded him of years before, when he was in college, and his parents came to visit him. When they were still together. 

He could tell that Annella had the same thoughts. 

“I’ll tell your father we met up,” she said, stroking Elio’s cheek, like she did when he was younger. She and Samuel has stayed friends. “He was wondering if we’d manage, he didn’t know how long you two were going to be in New York for.”

Elio sighed; then, could not help it - and hugged his mother again. 

“Look after yourself, maman,” he murmured. A wistful tone to his voice. 

Next to them, Michel was quiet. 

“Call me when you’re back in Paris, mon cheri,” Annella said. And then smiled one more time, before kissing her fingers, letting the kiss fly towards them as she walked away. 

“She seems... okay?” Michel tried, as they stood on the subway train, travelling back to their hotel. 

Elio bit his lower lip, looked down at his feet. “Yeah. She seems better,” he sighed. 

He’d been very worried; Annella had been strange, different, ever since the divorce. 

“And I hope your dad is doing okay, too,” Michel added. 

It was like he was trying to make Elio talk. As if he thought the silence would not be good for him, not after this morning. Elio didn’t look up, afraid of what his eyes would show. He didn’t know how his father was doing. He didn’t think he was doing well. 

“He was meant to be here too, when I mentioned we’d come to New York, he said he would come, meet up with us and my mom.” Elio sighed again. Steeled himself; looked up. 

God, he really thought he would be capable of handling this better. He was twenty-seven now. His parents had been divorced for five years. He didn’t think it was supposed to still make him so sad. 

He didn’t want to talk about it - that was it. He appreciated Michel trying to make conversation, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to tell him in so many words. 

But Michel only gave him a little smile; his grey eyebrows knitted together in an exaggerated thoughtful expression. 

“You know, I was thinking,” he started, wrapped an arm around Elio’s waist, as they stood and held on to the railings in the carriage. “Should I be jealous?”

Elio blinked. “Jealous?”

“Yes. Of Oliver. Of that handsome ex-boyfriend of yours.”

Frowning, Elio shook his head. “Why would you be jealous?”

Their carriage was quiet - yet they hadn’t even thought of sitting down, Elio wondered idly - and so Michel reached over to kiss the side of Elio’s neck. 

It was something Elio had told him, earlier in their relationship - that he liked to be kissed on his neck. He wondered if Michel was thinking the same thing; it had been Oliver who taught him to love being kissed there. 

“Because he is obviously still infatuated with you,” Michel said - and for a moment, Elio had to remind himself of what they were talking about. 

Oliver was not still infatuated with him. 

“He’s not,” Elio protested. 

“Mmh, I am pretty sure he is.”

Elio looked at Michel; at his dark brown eyes. His face had wrinkles, and yet, the insecurity in his voice and in his awkward teasing right now made him look much younger. 

Elio shook his head, looked away. 

“He isn’t,” he said softly. And then changed the subject. “What do you want to do this afternoon? Wanna stay home - or go to the movies? Go and sightsee? Whatever you want to do.”

Michel’s hand stroked slowly down Elio’s spine, to his side - and then to the younger man’s hand, intertwining their fingers. 

“I want to spend some time alone with you. With my beautiful boyfriend. In bed, perhaps.”

And Elio turned back to look at him, smiled. Demurred, like he knew Michel liked to see him doing. 

“Works for me.”

And then he smiled at Michel again, looked up at the subway map. Someone needed to check the stops left to their destination. 

“I hope you don’t mind I called. Samuel gave me your number.” 

Annella’s voice was the same as ten years ago. Smooth, melodic; warm. 

She’d always been like a second mother to Oliver, a better mother, and so he closed his eyes, let her voice reach him unperturbed. 

“I don’t mind at all,” he assured her. In fact, he was happy she had called. When Elio mentioned she was in New York, he’d wished he could see her, too. See that she was okay. “How are you, Annella?”

“Oh, I’m doing fine,” she replied. There was a pause after that; Oliver knew she was letting him speak. 

“I saw Elio, last night.” He hesitated. “With his partner.”

“I’m pleased you managed to see each other. Since he moved to Paris, I feel like he’s losing all his connections in America. And you were very important to him.”

Annella said it, so lightly, so breezily - Oliver had to swallow. 

He felt like he wanted to tell her, everything. What he wanted to do, the divorce that he‘d told Micol he wanted; his conversation with Elio. 

He felt scared; he couldn’t. 

It wasn’t just what had happened - he had so many questions. Was Annella happy that Elio was dating a man double his age? Did she think it was the real thing? How did it happen - how could Oliver have let it happen? 

But he knew Annella wasn’t that kind of mother. She was protective, but she let her son be independent, had raised him that way since he was a baby. She let her son sleep in the same bed as his lover, at seventeen years old, she let him go away on a trip with him. She wasn’t certainly going to try and dictate Elio’s life now. 

Oliver wished he could just ask her if Elio was happy. 

“I wanted to give you a call, just to say hi, before I finish my round of visits to my acquaintances here in New York and fly back to Crema. Samuel wishes he was here, too,” Annella said then. 

Her voice sounded so melancholic, just then. As if she missed Sammy; it made Oliver miss him, too. Miss all of them.

Made him want to ask. 

“I’ll give the Professor a call,” Oliver said, returning to his old, affectionate moniker for Samuel almost automatically. “I hope you and he are okay,” he added, voice quiet. Almost as if he wasn’t sure he could say it. 

“Ah, Oliver. We are. It’s just... it’s just life. You know? E’ la vita.”

She seemed so sad, just then, despite her own words. Oliver was reminded of the facades that people could build around themselves. 

“I guess. I guess it’s true,” he said, only. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments! <3 please keep them coming!


	5. Chapter 5

Oliver had always had these big, beautiful hands. 

Since being touched by them, so many years ago, Elio had never forgotten them - and now he recognised the feeling of being touched by them, as Oliver smoothed his palms down Elio’s chest, over his nipples, down to his flat abdomen and around to his flanks and backside. 

Elio loved being naked in Oliver’s hands and so he arched his back, pulled the older man to himself for a kiss while he encouraged his big, familiar hand to slide further back, in between his thighs, letting Oliver understand what he wanted - and understand, Oliver did. 

His long, thick, beautiful finger pushed inside Elio, right then, and it didn’t even need lube and it didn’t hurt, just felt strong and forceful and, fuck, wonderful, and Elio moaned in Oliver’s mouth, made himself keep up with the kiss even while his whole body was on fire and he just wanted to cry out inside Oliver’s mouth. He’d always loved doing that - it was his way of telling Oliver how much he liked it, how much he wanted him, how much he wanted to stay in bed with him, naked, forever. 

Then all of a sudden, Oliver started pulling his hand back. Elio whined in protest, tried to grab Oliver’s arm and keep it between his thighs; but Oliver was gone. Oliver wasn’t even kissing him anymore. 

Elio blinked his eyes open. He looked around himself. 

He was in his bedroom, in bed. He’d been asleep. He was sweaty, breathing quickly; he was hard. 

Michel lay next to him, sleeping. 

Fuck. Elio ran a hand through his curls, damp on his forehead. He bit the inside of his cheek, looking at the ceiling. 

He held his other hand down on the mattress by his side, took deep breaths, willed his body to calm down, and himself to forget his erection, to forget his dream. 

Fuck. Why couldn’t Oliver just - stop, leave his mind, disappear from his existence - or just become a friend, an acquaintance, someone Elio could look at and say to himself ‘I can’t believe I once was with you?’ 

Michel, his boyfriend, his current partner, was lying right next to him and yet Elio was dreaming of another. Of making love with another. 

He covered his face with his hand,squeezed his eyes shut. His cheeks felt warm with shame and annoyance. 

“You alright, babe?” Michel’s sleepy voice asked. Without even looking at him, Elio knew he was only half-conscious. And yet, Michel was always so caring. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Go back to sleep,” Elio whispered back, willing the warmth in his cheeks to go away, together with the images of Oliver in his mind. 

Oliver tossed and turned, in bed. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Elio. 

Clothed Elio; naked Elio. Elio from ten years ago, young and innocent and rebellious and wild; and Elio now, adult Elio, still young but more experienced, his body moulded by life and by years but still lean, youthful, beautiful. His mouth still sharp and his mind bright, perhaps even brighter than before. 

He knew a lot more now and was less innocent, and Oliver had made a big difference in that. He’d taken away part of Elio’s innocence just like he’d taken his virginity, and now held on to it, saying it doesn’t matter what you do, or who you are with, part of you is how it is because of me. I taught you; there’s things you learned from me which you’ll never forget. There’s things I have of you which you’ll never have back. Which your partner, your man, will never have, even though he wants them, even though he’d probably cut my right hand off, the one I used to touch you, if that meant that what belonged to young Elio would pass right onto him. 

And yet, Elio belonged to someone else now. Oliver might have his innocence, his virginity, that precious moan of pain and fear and desire that left his red lips when Oliver fucked him for the first time; but now, Elio belonged to Michel. And Oliver had nothing. 

He couldn’t kiss him, couldn’t smell him. Couldn’t push his nose into Elio’s sides and his lips into Elio’s pubes and his mouth against the sweet entrance between his thighs. Couldn’t hold his hand, kiss the back of it; couldn’t make Elio smile. Couldn’t get drunk with him and then hold his hair as he threw up. Couldn’t kiss him against a wall in Bergamo in the dark, couldn’t make love to him all night in a hotel room, couldn’t eat a peach drenched in Elio and then hold him against his chest as Elio cried desperately. 

He couldn’t do any of it. 

And even though he’d told him he wanted to divorce his wife, that obviously hadn’t been enough, because Elio had almost recoiled, almost got angry, certainly rejected him, gone back to this Michel - older, much older Michel - who’d even met Annella already. Who’d taken Oliver’s place.

All Oliver had left now, were memories. Memories of Elio. Memories of his eyes, his mouth. His body. The way he liked to be touched. The way he liked Oliver’s fingers in his body, stroking from the inside, while Elio kissed him and whispered on his mouth, beautifully lewd and dirty, ‘I want your whole hand inside me’, to get Oliver even more riled up. 

All Oliver had was the reminiscence of Elio’s smell, the taste and feel of his skin as Oliver bit into it while they fucked, bit into the side of his neck until Elio laughed and begged him to stop because ‘Mafalda will see the signs’, and so then Oliver went down to his chest and bit his nipples, harder in punishment, making Elio laugh even more and try to push him away until he had no strength anymore. 

Oliver had the memory of Elio sucking him off, the darkest, thickest curtain of eyelashes fanned out on high, freckled cheekbones, and Oliver never lasted as long as he wanted when that happened, always came, with a grunt, down his beautiful boy’s throat. 

Oliver had the memory of laying on his side on white bedsheets, dogs barking in the distance, cicadas serenading them, as he held Elio from behind and both their hands were on Elio’s sex, and Oliver brought him to orgasm both with his touch and his words, whispered warm against the boy’s naked shoulder. 

Oliver only had memories now, and he came with them, to them. Closing his eyes tightly, trying to forget for a moment that he was alone.

Speaking to Annella had made Oliver think. 

He picked up the phone, called Samuel, with the intention of checking on him. Making sure he was doing okay. 

Of course, Samuel said he was. 

He’s always treated Oliver like a second son, a son in law, and Oliver was sure that as such he never wanted him to worry. 

Oliver missed him. 

“Why don’t you come by the villa,” Samuel said. “Take a little trip back to Italy. To clear your mind.”

It was exactly what Oliver had hoped he would say. Samuel was a good mind reader.

“I’ll see you in a week,” Oliver replied - and even a week didn’t seem soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments comments please :)


	6. Chapter 6

__“My dad asked me to go to the villa,” Elio said, dropping his overnight bag down on the kitchen floor, giving Michel a look as the older man sat back on the sofa, but not lingering, his mind already thinking of Italy.

“Is he all right?” Michel frowned. 

“Yes, he is. It’s not like I can only go if something bad’s happened,” Elio replied. Then realised he’d snapped; stood still for a moment, sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to - I’ve had a hectic day.”

“When would you go?” Michel asked. 

“On Monday. I haven’t seen him in close to ten months.” Elio cleared his throat. 

To tell him or not to tell him. 

But Michel would find out. Elio didn’t want to keep secrets with him. 

“Oliver will be there too.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Michel sighed, looked away for a second. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV - it had been chattering quietly in the background, Elio hadn’t even realised it - and leant forward, elbows on his thighs, one hand scratching his head. 

“I thought he upset you the other day,” he started. “Why would you want to see him again?”

Elio swallowed. 

It wasn’t that he wanted to see Oliver again. Or, rather, that wasn’t the main reason. 

At Oliver’s party in New York, Elio felt like he’d acted like a fool. Like a child. This would be his chance to show Oliver that he was an adult, now, that he was unaffected by him, that he didn’t care. This is what Samuel was inviting him for, after all. To give him a chance to show Oliver how he really felt about him. 

Elio would show him how happy he was in his life now, how much he didn’t miss him at all. 

“I don’t want to see him again,” Elio said, walking to the couch, sitting down next to his boyfriend. “I don’t care that he’s there. I just want to spend some time with my dad while he’s at the villa.”

Michel ran his hand through his hair again. Took a deep breath.

So Elio reached out, twined his fingers through his, squeezed his hand. 

Michel looked up at him. “You know I have to work.”

“I know. I’ll only be there for a few days.”

Michel nodded. Then lifted his head, reaching to kiss Elio on the cheek, then stood, and walked to the kitchen. 

“Why do you have to go?” Micol asked, again. “Can’t you - can’t you just wait?”

“Wait for what?” Oliver said, as he stuffed clothes into his suitcase. He tried to keep his tone gentle. 

“We can talk. We can see what can be done. Running away doesn’t solve anything.”

Oliver stood from where he was hunching over his luggage. Sighed. 

“I’m not running away, Micol. And we have talked. We have talked a lot.” He pursed his lips, a squeeze in his chest reminding him that he hated hurting her. But he didn’t regret his decision, he didn’t regret asking her for a divorce. 

“There’s nothing more to talk about. Please, try and understand.”

They’d had several conversations; Oliver had stood firmly by his choice. And yet, she hadn’t stopped asking. 

The children were away at boarding school, and while Oliver missed them, he was really glad they weren’t there to see them arguing. 

Micol’s eyes were sad once again. Oliver walked closer, took her face into his hands, and kissed her forehead. Then turned around to close his suitcase and pick up his jacket, ready to leave. 

The villa was just like he remembered it. 

Even though it had been ten years since he’d last been there - no, what was he saying? It had been less than that. He’d been there, with Micol, perhaps five or six years prior, when the kids were small. 

Just before Samuel and Annella had separated. 

Oliver got out of his cab, and thought that he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. 

It was true, then; his only experience of Italy, of Crema, in his mind, had been and still was when he’d met Elio. 

And Oliver nearly lost his breath, right then, when Elio was the one opening the door for him. 

“What - what are you doing here?” Oliver asked, startled, only realising how it sounded after he’d already spoken. 

“This is my house?” Elio replied. His eyesglittered for a moment, a hint of amusement at Oliver’s blunder. “Or, well. It used to be.”

“Sorry, sorry. Just - I didn’t expect to see you here.” Oliver took a breath, looked down. “For a moment, I thought - I thought I’d gone back in time.”

It seemed like, today, Oliver couldn’t get anything right. At least when Elio was concerned. 

At hearing Oliver’s words the younger man set his jaw, all mirth disappearing from his eyes. 

“I don’t look like I did ten years ago. And I’m not the same person, either,” he said, curt, tense. 

He stepped aside, looking down, letting Oliver come in.

Holding his suitcase in one hand, Oliver hesitated. 

Elio was there. While he was there. They would have to spend time at the villa at the same time. 

Oliver didn’t want them to be in bad terms. 

Elio looked stunning, even in his t-shirt and shorts. A bit like he did, ten years ago, when he’d only been seventeen, except now he was older, a little taller, his cheekbones more defined. His freckles, though, were still there. 

“My father is asleep now,” Elio said, in response to Oliver’s hesitation. “But once he wakes up you can-“

“I don’t want us to be - awkward. Around each other, while we’re both here,” Oliver interrupted. He looked into Elio’s eyes, the green even more familiar now that they were back in Crema. “Please, Elio. Is there anything we can do?”

The boy blinked, looked away for a moment. And Oliver tightened his fingers around the handle of his luggage, ready. Ready for anything, if that meant he could be in good terms with Elio again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, real life has been hectic. However, please consider leaving me a comment if you have read so far! It really makes a difference to know that you are reading. X


	7. Chapter 7

Elio sat outside. On one of the chairs in their backyard, the ones at the table they’d used for breakfast since when he was a baby. 

It was night time, and the gentle chiming of the cicadas was soothing, reassuring. He looked out at the trees immersed in theindigo of the sky. Smoked a cigarette, pulling long drags, breathing out the smoke, thinking. 

He missed his mother. 

He didn’t even know how it happened, that his parents’ marriage broke down. He would have never thought, never noticed anything. 

But then again, he’d been young. Immature, as much as he’d been precocious, but still ill-equipped to read life, to understand it fully. To see its folds and its twists and turns. 

Samuel had told him that perhaps, at least in the last few years, Elio had been the glue that kept them together. Elio had asked if it was his leaving that had caused this; his expression and the squeeze in his chest like that of a child, the child he used to be that still didn’t understand, that still felt like he was everything for his parents, the center of their world. 

Of course not, Samuel had said, of course it wasn’t you. You grew up; it was what was supposed to happen. We couldn’t be prouder of you. 

Then Samuel had moved out of their apartment in Milan. Annella had started going to the villa less and less. It was hers, but she didn’t mind Samuel going any time he wanted. She just didn’t want to go as often any more. 

And Elio sighed. She’d always loved the villa; the apricot trees, the sun, the fountain and all the people that came to visit. The precious moments she spent there with her husband and her beloved son. 

Elio took another drag of his cigarette, watching the flicker of the orange tip of it gleam. He needed to stop thinking about the past. He’d been chained to it for far too long; it wouldn’t bring anything good. 

“Mind if I join you?” Oliver’s voice came then, low, followed by the muted noise of the older man’s footsteps on the stone floor of the patio. 

Elio bit the inside of his lower lip, didn’t turn around. The Past really liked to have its fun with him. 

He made himself look up at Oliver. “Be my guest.”

He looked back down, and heard Oliver’s gentle laughter. 

“I was, once.”

Elio rolled his eyes, half-irritated, half-amused. “I can’t believe you just made this joke,” he scolded, mock-serious. Took a breath and looked back ahead of them, towards the trees, with their leaves gently swaying in the night summer wind. 

He heard Oliver sigh. 

“I’m sorry. I just -“, and here the older man paused, hesitated. Elio couldn’t remember Oliver ever being so tentative. Insecure.

He started again. 

“I don’t say this with any - animosity. Please believe me. But - I understand if me being here is - you came to see your dad, and now I’m here, and I don’t want to - ruin anything.”

He’d spoken so quietly. So timidly. Elio frowned, and had to turn around, look up at him, look into his eyes to try and read whatever expression, whatever feeling was accompanying those words. 

“I will go, if you think it’s best. I want to see you, and I want to see Samuel, but I don’t want to - I shouldn’t intrude in your time here.”

Elio’s heart beat faster for a couple of seconds, as if skipping a beat. He frowned, held Oliver’s eyes. Was Oliver really saying he would leave?

“What are you talking about?” He protested. “I knew full well you would be here too, when I told my dad I would come.”

His cheeks flared up at that, and he silently thanked the darkness of the night that meant the sudden colour on his pale skin wouldn’t be immediately obvious to anyone who looked. 

He bit his lip, knowing how his confession could be misconstrued. 

He hadn’t come to Italy to see Oliver. He hadn’t. 

“Anyway, I’m only here for a couple of days,” he said then. Shook his head, looked back ahead at the trees. Cleared his throat, remembered of the cigarette held between his fingers and took a drag from it. 

Oliver didn’t respond; but Elio could see him, so clearly even though he wasn’t looking at him. Nodding quietly, letting his eyes linger on Elio, in silence. 

“You can sit down. If you want.” Elio felt he needed to say that, to make Oliver feel less uncomfortable. 

He heard a few more footsteps, the whisper of fabric as Oliver sat down on the chair not far from him. 

Elio didn’t dare look again. 

“I’m happy to be here.” Oliver’s voice was quiet. He took a deep breath. 

Elio blinked, kept his eyes looking ahead. Waited. 

“I like the silence. I feel like I’m in a different world.”

Elio didn’t know if Oliver intended to talk about anything in particular. He was just making conversation, of course. Trying to get Elio to say something. But Elio didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he had anything to say. 

“Do you miss it? When you’re in Paris?” was the question that came. 

Elio looked down. “What?”

“Do you miss the silence?”

Elio sighed. “Only a writer could say something like that.” He spoke gently; he didn’t mean to be cutting. It was true, after all. That was something a writer would say. 

“Or a pianist.”

Elio bit his lower lip. 

“Yes, you’re right. I miss the silence, in Paris. But maybe because the noise I hear is of students getting their notes wrong, missing marks, going out of tune.”

It made Oliver chuckle, and Elio chuckled lightly himself. He’d missed that sound, too. 

“I’m sure a lot of them are incredible artists. They have to be, with a teacher like you,” Oliver said. 

Elio shook his head.

“You don’t have to flatter me, Oliver.” 

He didn’t mean for the sentence to come out as wistful as it did. And when Oliver replied, it was evident that he didn’t understand that. 

“I’m not flattering you.”

“I just mean,” Elio started, sitting up on his chair, his childlike restlessness still as present now as it had been ten years ago, when he had been a child. 

He paused, started again. “I just mean, look. I don’t want this to be awkward, either. You’re here, I’m here, we can - we can talk, normally. Like friends. It would make things easier.”

He felt Oliver’s eyes on him, and this time, Elio made himself look back. Hold his gaze, even though, inside, he felt like hiding. 

“You know I will always look at you in a certain way. No matter when, or how, or where we are.”

His voice was wistful, now, low, and the certainty in his tone made Elio’s cheeks burn, his limbs tense, with something he didn’t know how to describe. He wanted to call it irritation, disappointment - but it wasn’t that. 

Elio set his jaw, bit his lower lip, ignored the traitorous warmth that he felt on his cheeks. He wasn’t seventeen anymore. 

“Can you try?” he asked. 

“Can I try?”

“Being friends. While we’re here.”

Oliver held his eyes. Then nodded. 

“Yes. Of course.” He gave him a small smile. “Of course.”

Elio stared into his eyes for a little longer, as if to discern his sincerity. Then, feeling the need to swallow, he looked away. Decided to completely ignore his heart beating fast in his ribcage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do leave me a comment and let me know what you think x


	8. Chapter 8

When Samuel invited him to go to Lake Garda the next day, for old times’ sake, Oliver asked if Elio was joining them, too. 

“For old times’ sakes,” he repeated Samuel’s words. 

Samuel smiled, that knowing smile he always had when it came to his son and Oliver. 

“I think he’s still asleep. Why don’t you go and see if he’s up?”

Oliver hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. Samuel’s smile was serene, and Oliver swallowed the feeling of apprehension he felt, at thinking of going to knock at Elio’s door - they had the same sleeping arrangements as ten years ago, except now the doors between their rooms were closed - and seeing him in bed, just like ten years ago, except now there was a distance between them. 

Oliver didn’t stop to wonder - if he had, he would just overthink. He’d just slept in the room right next to Elio, after all. If he had tried to listen, he would have been able to hear his breathing. So why was he nervous now? 

There was no need. 

And this is what he told himself, when he climbed the stairs up to their rooms, when he stood in front of Elio’s door, and got ready to knock. 

_There is no need to be nervous_. 

Elio’s voice called back almost instantly.

Carefully, Oliver opened the door; peeked inside. 

Elio was laying in bed; dressed in shorts and a polo t-shirt, however, as if he’d gotten up and got dressed, but decided to lay back down for a bit longer. He had some sheets of paper open in front of him. 

“I didn’t know if you were awake,” Oliver said, gently. “Thought you were asleep still.”

Elio shook his head, smiled his lopsided smile, the one he used when he wanted to be unaffected. 

“Not used to sleeping in anymore. Woke up and thought I’d grade some of the papers from my students. I have so many to do.”

“Oh,” Oliver nodded. He was still peeking through the barely opened door, his hand on the metal knob, as if he was afraid he’d be told to close it back up any second. 

“Your dad is going to Lake Garda. Now, in fact. I’m going with him and he’s asked if - maybe you want to come along?” He hesitated. “For old times’ sake.”

He’d spoken quietly, tentatively - and berated himself when he saw the shadow in Elio’s eyes at his mention of the past. He’d done it lightly, merely repeating what Samuel himself had said - but only now realised how charged those few words were, how rife of meaning, when it came to him and Elio. When they’d gone to the lake, that day, ten years ago, it was just when their relationship was getting started; when they were getting close - when their intimacy had finally started building. 

They’d been flirting, that day. Skirting around each other carefully, stealing glances, crouching down on the sand next to each other, their bodies unconsciously seeking closeness. They’d swum in the water at sunset, splashed and held each other, laughing, aware of each other’s skin, of how good it felt to touch it. 

And now, Oliver had brought that all back. 

“I - I think I should stay, and do some work,” Elio said, quietly, looking down at the papers on his lap. He was frowning, worried about saying no - his expressive face not hiding anything - but saying it nonetheless. 

Oliver hesitated for a moment - genuinely sad at the rejection, though he’d been expecting it. But he needed to be supportive. He needed to give Elio his space - he’d promised that. 

“Okay, that’s - that’s fine, I understand. Just thought - just thought I’d ask.”

He tried to make his tone sound as light as possible. Tried not to burden Elio with the weight of his disappointment. Elio was right, it was probably for the best. Elio was avoiding complications for the both of them; he was being responsible. 

Elio needed to work, and Oliver needed to believe that. 

Oliver made himself smile, not looking away from Elio’s eyes for a few moments longer. What he wanted was to convey he was fine, everything was okay. That they were friends, just like they’d said. 

But Elio’s eyes were just as big and green as they’d been that day ten years ago and all the days that they’d been together. Elio’s face was just as youthful, his freckles still there, his curls still ruffled. His body a little more filled out under the shirt, but not by much, still slender. 

Oliver nodded, looked down, away, and closed the door behind himself, leaving Elio alone. 

Samuel still insisted in driving his old Cinquecento, the car that was so small Oliver was amazed he could fit himself in it and not cramp up. 

Next to his car, Samuel was smiling as Oliver reappeared, his sunglasses on. 

“He can come another time,” he said cheerfully when Oliver told him Elio wasn’t coming. “Let’s go, it’ll be fun.”

Oliver pulled on his own sunglasses, bent low to climb into the car, Samuel taking the driver’s seat and chattering about Oliver being his navigator. 

“Wait.” 

Oliver turned around, just before Samuel turned the engine on. 

In the quiet of the villa they heard Elio’s voice, though Oliver thought he must have heard wrong at first. 

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind joining you. I thought some air would do me good,” Elio said, standing outside the car. 

“Ah, wonderful. Come in, Elli. Let’s go!” 

Samuel’s enthusiasm towards the trip all but trebled. And Oliver watched Elio climb into the back seat, gave him a smile, and then turned around to look ahead as Samuel started the car, his chest losing some of its tightness. 

The lake was beautiful at that time of year, and while some people had had the same idea as them and were strolling by the shore, it was still quiet enough that they could enjoy the silence, the gentle noises from the water, the birds chirping. 

It was almost too idyllic, as Oliver watched Samuel look out to the lake, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand, excited like a child. Oliver stayed behind a little, waiting for Elio to catch up to him, the younger man walking a little slower behind them. 

“Your dad really loves it here,” Oliver said, softly, still watching Samuel watch the water. 

Elio’s voice in response was just as wistful. 

“Yeah. He and mom used to come here all the time.”

Oliver nodded. Chanced a side glance at Elio, just to check on his expression. He had a little smile on his face; he, too, was watching Sammy. 

“Do you think your mom would come here, too? Feels strange not to have her here,” Oliver said, gently. He wouldn’t have said it, of course, if he hadn’t known that Sammy and Annella were in good terms. 

“Now? While we’re here?” Elio turned towards him. 

“Yeah. Why not.”

Elio sighed. “I don’t know. She’s been strange, lately. She doesn’t come here all that often anymore.”

It’s the memories, Oliver thought but didn’t say. Feeling like he could understand Annella completely. 

But he’d learned from the past few days, and kept quiet. He’d made Elio uncomfortable enough; didn’t want to ruin the delicate balance they were trying to find now in this new relationship of theirs by mentioning memories again. 

People were starting to get into the water. A couple of children splashed each other, laughing. Oliver sighed, enjoyed that image - it was comforting. 

“Did you bring your swimsuit?” 

Oliver turned his head at Elio’s question. It had come sort of out of the blue, the boy’s tone suddenly excited. 

“N-no. I didn’t think of it,” Oliver replied, looking into Elio’s gleaming eyes. 

“Neither have I,” Elio said; and bent down to take his shorts off, then his t-shirt. “Come on, Americano!” he called softly, smiling back at Oliver, and started to walk briskly towards the water in just his underwear. 

Oliver’s heart beat a little faster - but he shook his head, smiled, and decided not to fight it. He undressed - thankful that he’d decided to wear dark boxers that day; and then followed Elio, walking to the shore, letting the water touch his body once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. I’ve had so much to do.... I’m so exhausted physically and mentally. But I’m here! Updates will come (these, and the other 2 stories I’ve got in the works! Ha) 
> 
> Leave me a comment please, you know how much I love them xx


	9. Chapter 9

When Oliver had decided to go on a trip of Italy, that day, ten years ago, of course he’d thought about the people he would meet. 

It was going to be a time of work but also of holiday, in the summer, and Oliver was fully conscious that meant summer flings, sleeping with different people, no-strings-attached fun with someone attractive and willing and fuelled by the heat, by the sight of half-naked bodies, by youth and by excitement. 

He’d been fully up for it. Meet someone, sleep with them. Enjoy their company and their body, and the feeling of here and now, of now and never again, with no worries and no regrets. Look at their faces and flesh and hear their moans and breaths, hopefully make them louder, give and take pleasure. Then pat himself on the back and let them go quickly and painlessly. 

Oliver had been fully up for doing this with someone and then forgetting their faces and their names. He was twenty four; he had the right to. Fuck them and leave them, both of them on the same page, both of them happy with a quick summer fling. 

When he’d signed up for his internship with Professor Samuel Perlman, Oliver had thought about whether he’d meet someone like that in Crema - he couldn’t deny he had thought about that. He’d wondered if there even was anyone else around there to meet, aside from the family. Samuel lived with his wife Annella and his son Elio. Who was a teenager. 

Oliver had quickly written him off. 

And yet, when he finally arrived, when Annella walked into the room with her son and Samuel introduced him to Oliver, Oliver’s eyes had lingered on the boy a moment longer. Even though he was jet-lagged, exhausted, and just craving solitude and sleep, Oliver’s eyes had looked at Elio, up and down, quickly but for long enough to appreciate him. Appreciate his lithe body, his pale skin; the black curls, the red, full mouth; his youthful face. Elio was attractive, and in any other situation he would have been perfect as the object of Oliver’s summer conquest, the prey to Oliver’s summer fling plans. 

But he was too young. He was only seventeen. 

And he was the son of the man who was gracefully hosting Oliver in his house. 

It was a big, resounding no on both counts. 

But Elio had decided, in his own version of Oliver’s daydream, that he wanted Oliver, he wanted him and he wasn’t going to let Oliver’s excuses, his reasoning and his explanations that he wanted to be good, stop him in his pursuit. Oliver wanted to say that he’d succumbed to Elio’s stubbornness, and sure, he could blame the kid as much as he wanted. When Oliver indulged in him, when he played in seducing him, fingers on those well defined lips, hands on the boy’s throat, when he let him lick his mouth and then took charge in kissing him, yes, Oliver could just blame Elio. And he had, for a while - for all of mere days. He’d told himself that Elio wanted to try something new, wanted to sleep with an older man, wanted to gain experience, wanted to lose his virginity to someone who knew how to take it. That’s what Oliver had told himself, when he’d kissed Elio back. When he’d responded to Elio’s desperate, childish plea on that piece of wrinkled paper pushed under Oliver’s door. 

Fine. You want me to fuck you? 

_See you at midnight._

Then he’d woken up the next day with a sleeping Elio in his arms, the boy’s smell on Oliver’s skin and his sweet moans of pain and pleasure still in his ears and he’d thought- Oh, shit. Oh, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

As Elio’d slowly woken up, and looked at him, remembering the night before, Oliver’s heart had beaten faster and his lips had softened into a gentle smile, tenderness and pride overwhelming him. His quest had been to take this boy’s virginity, have his summer fling, some fun with a nice warm body, and he’d done that - but look. He’d given Elio his heart in exchange. 

It was then that he’d fallen in love with Elio, Oliver thought, as he now stood by the doorway to his borrowed room and looked at the beds, still pushed together like ten years ago. He’d slept on them for the past two nights, and yet only now the memories had decided to stab him deep in the heart, deeper than before. Now that he’d seen those two young men again, leaning against the foot of the bed, tips of their toes touching as they whispered sweet nothings to each other. 

_Does this make you happy?_

“You’re not coming down for some breakfast?” 

Elio’s voice, here and now, made Oliver jump out of his reverie. 

Elio was looking at him from the bathroom, hair wet and curling where he’d just splashed water over it. 

Oliver gave him a small smile while he forced himself to stop thinking. 

“Ah, yes. Could do with some good coffee,” he said, resolving to jest about something mundane, because Elio was way too smart and too perceptive not to understand what was going on if Oliver wasn’t quick enough to distract him. 

Once downstairs, Oliver followed Elio out on the patio, where the table was set up with bread, jams, juice and coffee. It was just like ten years ago - and Oliver wanted to say it, but he didn’t. He needed to stop with the memories. They made Elio uncomfortable - and Oliver didn’t want to risk him pulling away again. He needed to be careful. 

“I’ll call my mom today. I want to see how she’s doing,” Elio said, out of the blue. Oliver looked towards him. He was eating a croissant, and looking towards the orchard, a thoughtful look on his face. 

Oliver nodded. 

“Do you want to go into town, later?” Elio spoke again. “I don’t think the bikes we used to ride are still around. If they are, they’re probably rusty. But my dad will give us his car, if we want. I can finally drive you around.”

Oliver blinked. He’d tried to avoid any reference to the past, any reminiscing no matter how veiled, and yet Elio had gone into it head on. _The bikes we used to ride. I can finally drive you around._

Oliver would have made a joke about how back then he was the one always driving because Elio was too young to have a license, he would have gently teased him - but he didn’t. Perhaps he needed to pull back; yes, that’s what he needed to do. Be the one who stayed behind, now. 

“I don’t know. I think your father needed me - there’s this show on tv he wanted to watch -“ damn, he really was as bad as excuses as he’d been ten years ago. 

Elio’s smile then was amused, sweet. 

“Aw, come on. There’s nothing remotely decent on Italian TV in the morning during the summer, you know that.” He stood, but downed the rest of his espresso, licking his lips after and still smiling for Oliver. “Come with me.”

There was no universe where Oliver could have said no. 

“I like French people. They have a lot in common with Italians, though if you ask either of them, they’re always insulting each other. Jokingly, of course.” Elio was saying. They were sitting at a bar in Crema’s piazzetta, another coffee in front of them, and Elio was smiling, looking around himself, talking a thousand miles an hour. 

Oliver tried to relax. He kept a gentle smile on his face. The dry, fresh air of the morning felt nice on his skin. It was going to get much warmer soon, the closer they got to midday. 

“Elio!” 

They both looked up. A young man walked towards them, smiling. Oliver looked from him to Elio; Elio was smiling back. It was someone he knew. 

“Ciao, Cris,” Elio greeted, stood to receive the other man’s embrace. 

They spoke in Italian after that, and Oliver just watched the exchange from one to the other. It was brief, they both smiled the whole time. Oliver could not understand what was being said, but could see that this Cris was asking a lot of questions. Quick-fire, his eyes lit up as he watched Elio respond. 

“Sorry. That was Cristiano, an old schoolmate. I haven’t seen him in like, three years,” Elio said after, sitting back down next to Oliver once his friend left.

“He seems to like you.” Oliver raised his eyebrows. 

“What? No...we’ve been friends forever.”

“Well. Perhaps he’s liked you forever. Did you see the way he looked at you?”

Oliver kept an amused expression, gently teasing, and watched as Elio rolled his eyes in equal amusement and shook his head. 

“Come on. Let’s walk,” Elio said, not looking at Oliver but giving him a gentle pat on the arm to get him to stand. Oliver was still smiling as he did what he’d been asked, standing and following Elio, walking across the square, the gentle sun skimming their skin. 

“Anyway,” Elio said, so softly that Oliver wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right. “Anyway, if there’s someone people should be looking at in that way, it’s you.”

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t look up at Oliver but stared straight down to his feet, to the cobbled pavement they were walking on, and only bumped his shoulder to Oliver’s, very gently, playful. Oliver looked at his profile; at the soft smile Elio was wearing. Blinked, his heart wanting to skip a beat again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the minimum age to drive in Italy is 18 :)
> 
> Leave me comments please, I love to know your thoughts! X


	10. Chapter 10

“So it looks like it’s just us two tonight,” Oliver announced, walking out on the patio, stopping next to Elio who stood there, smoking a cigarette. 

“My dad isn’t coming?” Elio turned to Oliver, his eyes wide. 

“He doesn’t feel very well. He said to go ahead, and he might join us later maybe.”

Elio frowned, swallowed. 

“What - what do you mean? Is he okay?”

His jaw was set, and he looked instantly worried, put out his cigarette into an ashtray on the table with haste, as if he were preparing to go somewhere in an instant. 

“Think he’s just tired. He just wants to take it easy, for tonight,” Oliver tried to reassure. Elio’d been acting much more attentive towards Samuel, Oliver had noticed throughout the few days they’d been there together. He worried much more, now. 

“But I’m leaving, tomorrow,” the boy murmured, seemingly to no one. A voicing out loud of his thoughts that instantly reminded Oliver of younger Elio. 

Oliver found himself silent. Not really sure what to say; how to reassure him any further. Samuel was Elio’s father; Elio knew his behaviours, the state of his mind and health better than anyone else. 

He watched as Elio looked down, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought, and then looked up to him and started walking back inside the house, patting Oliver’s arm as he did. “I’m going to check on him,” he whispered. 

“He’s fine. He’s just tired, like you said,” Elio said later, back on the patio, back smoking a cigarette as he looked out to the road in front of the villa. 

His own cigarette in hand, Oliver nodded. Attempted a smile towards Elio. 

“We don’t have to go out if you’d rather stay here and keep an eye on him,” he offered. “I don’t mind.”

Elio stubbed his cigarette, and looked up at him. Smiled, too. 

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s - my last night here, it’s - we should go out. You need a good Negroni, while you’re in Italy, I know just the place.”

He seemed in good spirits, and so Oliver chuckled back, put out his own cigarette, and followed Elio to the car. 

The Negronis at that bar in the middle of the piazzetta in Crema were good, indeed, and Oliver found himself sipping on his third one a couple of hours later. He and Elio were sitting at a table outside, chatting and watching people walk by, the night air was warm, and the waiter had brought crisps and little nibbles at their table to go with their drinks. Oliver didn’t think the warmth he felt in his limbs was only due to the alcohol in his system. 

“I missed being able to have a drink outside at night, with warm air around me,” Elio said, smiled as he took another sip. His cheeks were flushed, and Oliver smiled back. “It’s been so cold in Paris this whole year.”

“I think I’ve missed sitting outside, having a leisurely drink, for years, now,” Oliver said. Unable to remove the wistful tone to his voice. He looked ahead of him, at the Cremaschi people standing around, chatting and laughing, drinking. Enjoying their summer night, seemingly without a care in the world. 

“You haven’t been back since?” Elio asked. His question almost suspended; he’d meant, since Oliver had come to the villa with his wife and kids, years before - and Oliver, of course, knew.

“No, never had the chance. Life got too busy.” He hesitated a moment. “And I would have told you, if so.”

Elio looked ahead of him, too. “Would you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Why.”

Elio’s question, so abrupt and to the point, made Oliver blink. 

He turned around to look at his young companion, checking on his eyes to gauge what was happening, if he himself was just being over sensitive to his tone or if there actually was something there. But Elio was looking down, his face expressionless, and then he took another sip of his drink, his glass now almost empty. 

“Because. Because - of course, I would have told you. Because every time I think of Italy I - you’re there. I think of you, too.”

He was expecting a protest, a come back, because he didn’t even know if his explanation made any sense. It just sounded like a weak defense in his own ears, but when he looked back over at Elio, the boy was looking up too, towards him. Interestedly. 

“I want another drink. What about you?” Elio asked. Oliver smiled briefly and nodded - yes, he did want another drink, those Negronis were going down so smoothly - and watched as Elio flagged the waiter down to make his request. 

They’d talked about other things after that - food, work, how they were both teachers now, how impossible and yet lovely it was to live in Paris, how impossible and yet exciting it was to be back in New York. 

Elio missed New York; Oliver longed to go back to Paris. 

“You should come visit,” Elio said, smiled, as they walked a little later, just strolled down Crema’s main road, slow. 

Oliver felt like his skin had gone even warmer; the alcohol was making him feel good. Happy. 

“Yes, I should come visit,” he repeated, smiling at his young friend. Elio smiled back; and Oliver felt his heart give a jump. And it felt pleasant; exciting. 

“Come now,” Elio said then. “Come with me when I go back.”

“I wish I could,” Oliver murmured. He kept his smile firmly on his face - the playful atmosphere between them was so nice, after days of tension and upset, that he made himself stop from what he wanted to ask next: what would Michel say if you brought me back with you?

And just when he was about to speak again - maybe jest about something else; keep that connection going - he saw Elio’s eyes go wide, his smile growing even more. 

“Oh! Do you remember, do you remember that side street?” he asked, excited all of a sudden, sauntering toward the alleyway that had caught his attention. 

Oliver followed him, and looked, thought. Yes. Of course he remembered. 

“Remember there were flowers on the window sills. And now look, exactly the same flowers as ten years ago. Same colors,” Elio continued, pointing towards the windows in the building at the end of the cul-de-sac. 

Oliver chuckled - such a specific thing to remember and to mention now. But his skin was warm, his mind pleasantly fuzzy, and so he went along with it. 

“Some plants last years and years and flower and bear fruit the same way their entire lifecycle,” he said - then immediately felt silly for the serious answer he’d just given. 

Elio turned around, his back to the cobbled wall. It was darker in that alley, but Oliver could still see his smile, his flushed cheeks in the gentle light of the street lamps. 

“Is this your academic opinion, professor?” 

Elio’s voice was lower. He was looking up at him, his smile still on his face, still gentle, still boyish as it was ten years before. 

His tone was no longer just playful. It bordered in something else, something warmer. 

Seductive. 

“Thought that was what you were asking,” Oliver said. It was almost a struggle to speak, when he just wanted to keep looking at Elio’s eyes. 

“Not really,” Elio replied. He was leaning back against the wall fully now, his head back, so that his throat was partially in display. “I was asking if you remember. Remember, you wanted to kiss me, here. Right in front of this door.”

Oliver thought he’d heard wrong, at first. He looked at Elio, as the boy held still, leaning back against the wall; he was smiling, and Oliver was sure that he must be feeling as warm as he himself was. 

Oliver looked down; then back up. 

“I remember.”

He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know - but his heart had started beating faster again. 

Elio looked beautiful in the light of the street, in the soft veil of the night there in Crema. His face was flushed. His hair mussed, curls falling over his eyes and in front of his ears no matter how many times he’d tucked them back - and Oliver had noticed. 

Oliver had noticed the boy’s collarbone as it peeked out from the neck of his lose t-shirt - of course he had noticed; he’d noticed how soft Elio looked, how inviting. No longer holding him at arm’s length. 

He took a step forward, towards him. And Elio didn’t move. Just held his eyes in Oliver’s. 

When his lips touched Elio’s, Oliver almost thought he was dreaming. 

This must be all a fever dream, he must be asleep, because this couldn’t be happening for real - him, kissing Elio, kissing Elio again, so many years later. After everything that had happened. 

He’d dreamt about this and he’d wanted this and he’d regretted everything he hadn’t done with Elio for so long, that now it felt surreal to be kissing him, it felt surreal and exhilarating and incredible that Elio was kissing him back, opening his mouth and letting the kiss deepen, their mouths aware of each other and used to each other and moving as if they’d never, ever stopped kissing. 

With a gentle moan, Oliver cupped Elio’s jaw, guiding his face a little more upwards as he pushed himself further into him; his body was starting to respond, just like ten years ago, unable to contain want and desire every time he was near that young man, wanting to be on him, against him, in him every chance he got. 

And Elio, that cheeky little tease, widened his stance to open his legs, let Oliver’s pelvis settle between them more comfortably. It made Oliver’s mind short circuit, and so he pushed harder, ground against him. Elio cried out softly, his arms wrapped tightly around Oliver’s neck. 

And Oliver growled in response, when he felt one of Elio’s slim hands sneak in between them, to grasp at Oliver’s sex through his jeans. 

“You’re so hard,” Elio murmured against Oliver’s mouth. “Is this for me?”

Cheeky little minx. 

“Of course it’s for you,” Oliver growled, pushing his face into the crook of Elio’s left shoulder; biting down on the delicate skin there. He kept thrusting into Elio’s groin, Elio’s hand still stroking him through his clothes - and Oliver wanted to snarl. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” Elio moaned low, his eyes closed, as Oliver ground down into him, hard. “I’ll - I’ll come, if you keep going. Oliver.”

“Yeah?” Oliver growled back on his lips, forehead against his forehead, not stopping his movements for one second. Elio was making pained noises - and Oliver remembered, of course he remembered, how Elio looked and felt when he was about to come - Oliver had given him enough orgasms to know all the signs. 

“Please, please Oliver. I want - not here. Please. Take me home. Take me home.”

Elio always begged so prettily - that hadn’t changed. Oliver growled low in his throat, on Elio’s mouth, wanting to complain and rejoice both at the same time. Wanting to fuck Elio right there and then, his body finding his home back inside his, as it should be - as it should be. Wanting to ignore his pleas, turn him around and push his trousers down, and take him right there, raw and quick, where he once had wanted to kiss him, where they once held hands, where they once realised they were in love. Wanting to come back home, himself. 

But he knew they couldn’t. 

Instead, he stopped moving; kissed Elio’s mouth, stroked his wayward curls off his reddened face. And then he nodded, stepping back with difficulty, but taking Elio’s hand in his and leading him back to their car. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for still being here! Xx

Elio was laughing on their journey back, elated and carefree, still drunk because his slender, slight physique didn’t allow him to hold his liquor as well as Oliver’s did. So Oliver was glad to be the one driving; even though, to cast his gaze to the road and away from the tantalising young man sitting next to him proved to be a painful feat. 

They started kissing again, demandingly, as soon as they got out of the car, back at the villa. Elio laughed against his mouth, at something silly he himself said. Oliver laughed back, holding his waist, laughing again when Elio’s cheeky hands bumped into his as they fumbled for the fly of Oliver’s trousers. 

“Come on, come on. Let’s go inside,” Oliver just about managed to say. 

There definitely was something, a voice, trying to speak inside his mind. Trying to warn him; are you sure of what you’re doing? Are you sure of Elio, that he will want this in the morning, too?

But the more the voice asked, the more Elio’s body felt warm, and tight, and just the right amount of sweaty in Oliver’s hands; the more the voice tried to warn Oliver, the more Elio demanded, with his mouth and tongue, and moans and breaths. 

Before Oliver knew it they were back in his room. Just like ten years ago. Just like ten years ago, the two single beds were pushed together, and the sight spurred Oliver on. He cupped Elio’s face in the palms of his hands, kissed him back with renewed fervour. And Elio’s hands were already on his shirt, undoing the buttons down his chest one by one. 

When they were both shirtless, Oliver gave him another kiss, a playful bite to Elio’s plump lips, and then reached down to unlatch his trousers. Elio was still breathing hard; he did the same, pushing down his jeans, off of his legs, and then lay back on the bed, across the two mattresses. His eyelids were half closed in lust; his mouth, half open, swollen. 

He let his arms fall up over his head, and Oliver’s erection pulsed painfully; Elio looked like an offering. 

“You still want me, then,” Elio murmured against Oliver’s cheek, when the older man crouched down over him to kiss his collarbone. 

As if Oliver could ever stop wanting him. 

“You still want me,” Oliver husked back, eyes closed. One hand twining fingers with Elio’s on the mattress, keeping him pinned, the other sneaked down his body, down to the boy’s erection - just as strained as Oliver’s. 

“You’re, ah,” Elio tried to respond. Oliver looked up; Elio had his eyes closed, his neck arched back at the first touch of Oliver’s hands on his sex. 

Elio tried again. “You’re so fucking handsome.”

Oliver chuckled, low, against Elio’s collarbone. He pulled up on the hand that was still on the mattress, looked down at Elio. Bent lower to kiss his lips. His hands still moved on Elio’s sex. The boy’s entire body was tight, waiting. 

“Open your legs,” Oliver murmured into Elio’s ear. And the look that the younger man gave him almost undid him: he looked drunk, shattered, with desire, with hormones. He still held his hands alongside his head down on the mattress even as he obeyed, and Oliver bent to kiss his lips, and then bit them again. Just as his finger pushed into Elio’s body - to give him a little pain to match the one between his legs, to make him feel, feel, just as much as Oliver did. 

“Ah, fuck,” Elio cursed, his hips kicking involuntarily at the sensation, nearly dislodging Oliver’s finger by doing so. 

Oliver smiled; pushed deeper, pulled his finger out; pushed inside of him with two. 

He felt debauched, wanton. Completely wild. His brain made of fog, unable to think - only wanting one thing. 

And that thing lay in front of him, under him, right now, beautiful and sweaty and moaning, his hips both pushing back against him and trying to escape each deeper touch. 

Elio’s eyes rolled back, and his spine arched, when Oliver pushed three fingers inside of him. 

Oliver kissed his chest; heard the wild heartbeat beneath the skin and bones. Elio’s body held his fingers tight like a vice, and had Oliver been in another mind he’d have told him to relax - had he been not terrified inside, not unsure of how long they had, he would have taken it slow. 

Instead, now, he curled his middle finger inside Elio’s body. Elio’s spine arched again, harder, and he cried out louder, and Oliver marvelled at his ability to still remember all of Elio’s sweet spots. 

“I, Oliver, oh, fuck. I’m gonna come,” Elio breathed, eyes closed. Had he been in another mind, Oliver would have stopped, told him he didn’t want to make him come just like this. 

But now, nothing mattered. Just what he was doing, just the creature he had under him and whose body he was touching. And so, Oliver pressed deeper, all three fingers; curled them again, felt Elio’s abdomen contract, hard. And then, Elio came. His body spasming. His release, pearly on his chest, over his sternum. 

“Fuck,” he murmured again, hand over his eyes. 

Oliver chuckled, quietly, and then watched Elio’s face as the boy winced when Oliver’s fingers left him. 

Oliver swallowed. Elio breathed, his eyes still covered. Oliver took a breath, too. Tried to come down from the high he’d just experienced.

He rolled on his back, looked up at the ceiling. He didn’t want to think, not yet. He didn’t want to worry. 

“Hey,” he heard Elio’s voice, beside him. Oliver turned to him, made himself smile. 

“Hey.”

“What about you,” Elio had pulled up on his side, was looking at him. His face was flushed, even in the semi-darkness of the room. “You’re still hard.”

Oliver swallowed. He was tempted to say that he was fine - but it would have been a lie. He wasn’t. He wanted - he wanted more. He didn’t want this to end. He wanted to keep Elio, for himself. 

Elio crawled closer, and spoke on Oliver’s lips. 

“Do you still like blowjobs?” 

What a question, Oliver thought, and looked into Elio’s half-lidded, sated eyes. 

“From a mouth like yours? How can you even ask,” he said. His brain and mouth completely disconnected. 

Elio just smiled, his eyes glinting at the crass answer. Oliver had taught him well.  _I wish everybody was as sick as you._

When Elio’s warm, warm, wet mouth closed around him, it was Oliver’s eyes which rolled back into his skull. 

He lay there, breathing hard. Feeling Elio’s head move on him, up and down, up and down. Oliver reached down and sunk his fingers into Elio’s fringe at one point, had to remind himself not to force him. It felt too good, way too good. So good, that he came a minute later, and watched as Elio pulled up, wiped come off his mouth with the back of his hand. 

The sunlight pushed, forceful, through the blinds in the room, and Oliver grumbled quietly to himself, blinking sleep from his eyes, wondering what time it was. 

It took him a couple of seconds to take stock. A couple of seconds to realise he was naked; a couple more to see that so was the young, beautiful body in bed with him. 

Elio’s. 

So it hadn’t been a dream. 

Fuck. 

Ten years ago, when they shared a bed every night, Elio used to wake up automatically every time Oliver did. 

And now, it was no different. 

Elio rolled on his front; leant on his elbow, rubbed his eye with his other hand. 

“Mmmmh,” he mumbled, blinking. “Fuck.”

Oliver was left to wonder if his cursing was due to a hangover- induced headache only for a couple of seconds. After that, Elio covered his face with his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, scrunched his eyes closed. 

“Fuck. Fuck, what did I do.”

Oliver had expected such a reaction. Now, in the clear light of day, they could both see what they’d done. 

“Elio.”

“Fuck, fuck.” Elio pulled up to sitting, rubbed a hand over his face again. “Fuck. I’m supposed to go home today.”

“Elio. Please. Hey. Look at me?”

Still facing away from Oliver, Elio shook his head. 

“No. Fuck, Oliver. Shit.” He seemed almost on the verge of panic, his voice feeble like Oliver knew it could get when Elio was close to tears. “Shit, I have - I have a plane, in four hours.”

The misery with which he said the words made Oliver react. 

“Please, don’t go. Not today. Wait a moment.” He was literally begging. 

“I can’t go back!” Elio’s response was unexpected. “God, I can’t go back. Look what I’ve done, I - Michel, he was gonna pick me up at the airport. And look what I’ve done.”

Oliver looked at him, at Elio’s tense back. He longed to touch him, to try and somehow comfort him - and it sounded fucked up even to his own ears. 

“I can’t go back,” Elio repeated again. He rubbed a hand on his face; Oliver was sure he was getting rid of tears. “I need to call him. I need to tell him I can’t go back today.”

And now Elio was full of frenzy - standing up, pulling his jeans and shirt back on, still rubbing a hand down his cheek. Oliver could only watch, his forehead creased, but stayed put, still on the bed, defeated, when Elio left the room to go downstairs and use the phone. 

Oliver lay back down. Swallowed. Trying not to wonder if he’d just made a huge mistake. 

When Oliver walked down about an hour later, when it was finally fully morning, Elio was smoking out on the patio. 

Oliver looked at him from the corner of his eye, wondering if he’d be welcome to speak to him now or if Elio wanted to be left alone. He went with his gut, and also he had the excuse of breakfast, the table waiting there for them, for coffee to be poured, bread to be buttered. 

And yet, he stood by the entrance. Not knowing that to say. Just glancing at Elio, watching him finish his cigarette. 

Elio spoke first. 

“I’ve told him I’m not going back today. I’ve told him I wanted to take a few more days.”

Oliver nodded. Good. Good. They had more time; selfishly, he was happy about it. More time to see what they were, where they were going. Good.

“Michel said it’s fine, that he’ll come here instead.” 

Oliver thought he’d heard wrong.

“He’s coming tomorrow,” Elio said, as if reading his mind. He looked up at Oliver; threw his dying cigarette away. “Just - I just. He’s coming here.”

And with that, he looked down; his eyes were still red. He walked back inside. And Oliver stood, listening to the door close, looking ahead of him, at nothing. 


	12. Chapter 12

Elio batted his eyelids. Felt wetness cling to his eyelashes, and he rubbed it away with both his hands, annoyed, with himself.

His telephone call with Michel had been painful. 

Not for Michel, not in itself. Elio had told him that he was going to have to stay at the villa a few more days. ‘How come?’ Michel has asked. ‘Are you okay?’ His French accent had lilted gently with the concern he always had towards his much younger partner. 

‘Yes, I’m okay, it’s just my dad, I don’t want to leave him on his own just yet,’ Elio had lied, throat constricting, tears pricking at his eyes. It was half a lie, perhaps - he really didn’t want to leave Samuel just yet. But that wasn’t what had made him want to delay his return. 

And Elio swallowed, around the lump he felt, when Michel said that it was fine, he could come and visit instead? He’d be happy to see Samuel for a couple of days. 

Elio had closed his eyes, tightly, swallowed again. 

He’d expected Michel to be angry. He knew all about Oliver; the marriage canard, as Michel called him. And Elio felt his voice sounded guilty enough on the phone for Michel to see right through his pathetic half-lie. 

And yet, Michel had sounded calm. Collected. Expectant. Elio wanted to sob, and he bit his lower lip, hard, closed his eyes, knowing he couldn’t tell his boyfriend not to come. ‘Yes. Yes, sure.’ 

Michel had spoken tenderly to him - ‘mon cheri, I’ll see you tomorrow, darling. I miss you.’ Elio hadn’t been able to say it back.

At the end, after he’d closed the call with Michel, he’d stayed sat on his bed, the one in the room next to Oliver’s, and wiped at his eyes angrily. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was so stupid. 

“Oliver’s out, I assume?” Samuel asked, appearing on the door to the patio. Elio still stood by the table, another cigarette held between his fingers, staring out at the trees, the sun reflecting on the fountain. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

Samuel didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Elio knew his silence said more than any words. Another person, another parent, would have asked, ‘Did you two have an argument?’ because Elio could still feel the tension in the air, even after he’d left, left Oliver alone outside, only to walk out a few minutes later craving another smoke and finding nobody there, no Oliver waiting for him.

But not Samuel.

“I’m glad to have you both here,” the older man said instead, padding closer to Elio, stopping to stand beside his son. “I’m glad you decided to stay a few more days.”

Elio nodded, looked down. Another thing to feel guilty about. 

He cleared his throat again.

“This house must be so lonely, with just you here. Without us, without Mafalda. I’ve never seen it empty - it was always full of people coming and going.”

He didn’t know what good his remark could do. Why was he even saying this for - if not to change the subject, make sure they wouldn’t talk about him and Oliver? Things had changed, deeply, since Elio had left for college. What good could be done by reminding his father of this?

“It can be lonely,” Samuel said. His voice unwavering. He always looked so serene, but Elio knew there was more behind it.

“I guess this is why mom doesn’t want to come here that much anymore,” Elio murmured, a hint of a question to his voice. 

Samuel sighed. 

“There are some people - who leave their presence wherever they go. No matter how long they stay in a place for, when they leave, it’s like they’re still there. You see them, you feel them right there with you.” Samuel’s voice softened even more. “I feel you know this. From when Oliver left.”

His words were so tentative - as if he feared hurting Elio. But there wasn’t much to hide anymore; over the years, Elio and Samuel had talked about what happened, back in that summer in 1983. 

And so Elio nodded, keeping his eyes on the grass in front of them.

“Do you miss her,” he murmured, although he knew the answer already.

“Of course,” was Samuel’s answer.

Elio kept his eyes on the ground. He only felt his father’s hand on his arm, squeezing gently for a moment, before he left to go back into the house. 

Michel kissed him on the cheek as soon as he climbed out of the taxi. 

He had a small bag with him, as they planned on only staying for a few days together at the villa. Once the taxi left, the older man pulled Elio to himself, kissed his mouth.

“Tu m’as manqué cherie,” he murmured quietly against the side of Elio’s neck. 

Elio let him hold him; his cheeks burning. 

“Let’s go inside, you must be tired,” he said, reaching to take Michel’s bag for him.

He hadn’t seen Oliver for the whole morning. Elio had kept to himself the night before - he’d driven into town, tried to distract himself from thoughts of Oliver, or having to speak to him, of Oliver maybe wanting to speak to him. And then today, he hadn’t seen him at all - and as he walked into the downstairs bedroom, where he and Michel were going to stay, he felt his cheeks still burn. He didn’t want for Oliver and Michel to meet again. He didn’t want to think about how long it had been since he and Oliver had said a word to each other.

Soon enough it was time for dinner, and as Elio and Michel sat down at the table with Samuel, Oliver was still nowhere to be seen.

“He told me he’ll be out of town for the night,” Samuel said, smiling, breaking a slice of bread in two with his fingers. Elio looked at him.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Visiting a friend who lives nearby, apparently.” Samuel smiled at Michel, too. “But I think he’ll be back tomorrow, so you two can say hi, Michel.”

Elio nodded, forced himself to smile at Michel, who smiled back and took a sip from his wine. 

In bed, later that night, Elio thought. 

He had a strange feeling, right in the center of his chest. It felt a little like ten years ago, before he and Oliver got together, when Oliver would disappear and Elio thought he was meeting up with the countless lovers he certainly had in town. 

He couldn’t help but feel the same now, even though it made him set his jaw, berate himself for thinking such things. He couldn’t help it. Who was Oliver visiting? Was it a man, or a woman? How did he know them? Why hadn’t he said anything?

“I can hear your mind thinking,” Michel’s voice, as his boyfriend came out of the en suite bathroom, bent over to kiss Elio’s hair.

Elio made himself smile. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, turning around to lie flat on his back on top of the bed.

Michel smiled back. He was only wearing his pijama bottoms, chest naked. And he reached over, to Elio, kissed his mouth. 

“Tu m’as manqué,” he repeated on his lips, low, placing kisses against his skin, and then pulling back, looking into Elio’s eyes.

“I missed you too,” Elio made himself say. Telling himself that he did feel that way; it wasn’t Michel’s fault that Elio hadn’t said it yet. 

Guilt burned into his chest when the older man smiled at him, and so when Michel kissed him again, Elio kissed back, opening his mouth and letting their tongues touch. Michel moaned against him, breathed hard, and then he was pushing up to hover over Elio, kissing him more deeply as he held himself up with one hand on the mattress. His other hand slid down Elio’s chest, to the buttons on the young man’s trousers; and Michel unlatched them, stroking up Elio’s chest and to his throat, then back down, under Elio’s underwear.

Elio couldn’t do this.

“Michel,” he said, holding the older man back a little with a hand on his chest. 

But Michel didn’t register his tension.

“I want you so much,” he murmured against Elio’s throat, his hand stroking back, under Elio’s underwear, between his thighs.

“Michel, please. No.”

The exploring hand stopped. Michel stayed still, for one moment, and then he sighed, pulling back. 

“I thought your father doesn’t mind what you do when you’re here.”

Elio bit his lip. Michel had misunderstood. 

“No, it’s not - it’s not that. I just - just can’t.”

“Are you not feeling well?” Michel asked, frowning. 

And Elio wanted to sigh. Almost annoyed, although he chastised himself for feeling that way almost instantly.

“No, I’m okay, I - I’m sorry. I just don’t feel like it tonight.”

How to explain how he felt? He couldn’t even explain it to himself. And he couldn’t even begin to tell Michel. 

And tell him what, anyway? That he’d cheated on him, that he and Oliver - that they’d become what they were, ten years ago, for all but a couple of feeble hours, so short but which had thrown Elio into an abyss of memories, worries, hope and self hatred that he couldn’t seem to climb his way out of? 

He couldn’t. He couldn’t mention any of it.

Michel looked at him. Then breathed out, ran a hand through his grey hair. Pulled back to lie on the bed.

“I’m sorry.” Elio felt he needed to say it again.

“It’s okay,” Michel squeezed his hand into his for a moment. “We can just sleep.”

And Elio sighed. Looked up at the ceiling, his heart still beating fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget to tell me what you think! <3


	13. Chapter 13

“If you think about it, isn’t it crazy? How people find each other.”

Oliver frowned, and walked towards Elio, who was sat in the backyard, that night, facing the orchard, a glass of something in his hand. There was a bottle of wine, sitting on the pavement next to him. 

“Elio?”

Elio didn’t turn around. 

“It’s crazy, how - how people decide what to do. Who to sleep with. Just - just because somebody’s attractive, somebody’ looks good, or something, their face, their body, we think yes, I will have sex with them. This person is attractive so I want to take them to bed with me.”

Oliver frowned, uncomprehending. Though, if he had to be honest, Elio’s words might be confusing, but his tone wasn’t. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. Elio was clearly drunk. Oliver didn’t intend to upset him even further. 

“Isn’t that what you did with me?” 

Elio’s voice, sure and firm. Oliver frowned even deeper, started to shake his head to convey that no, he couldn’t understand. 

Elio turned, looked up at him. Oliver couldn’t be sure, but his eyes seemed red-rimmed. 

“Isn’t that what you did with me? Ten years ago? You saw me, you said it yourself, you liked me, you took me to bed.Am I wrong?”

“Elio, what-“

Elio looked at his glass; it was evidently empty, because he frowned again, put it down on the floor, deciding instead to grab the bottle and bring it to his mouth, taking a swig. 

“Don’t worry, I did it too. I’m not about to tell on you for sleeping with a seventeen year old, don’t worry.”

Oliver set his jaw. 

“What the hell are you talking about.”

Elio sat up; and then bent over, looked down at his feet, the wine bottle still clutched in his hand. 

“I am just thinking, Oliver.”

His voice was low, grave. It made Oliver feel uneasy, worried. This was not like Elio. 

“Elio. Where is Michel?” he asked carefully. 

“He’s inside. Playing cards with my dad,” Elio said. Took another drink from the bottle. 

Oliver ground his teeth, looked away. Why was Elio out here alone, how could Michel not have noticed what was going on?

“Alright. Time’s up, enough of this,” he crouched down next to Elio, took the bottle from his hand. “I’m taking you inside.”

“I am not one of your fucking kids!” Elio’s voice was suddenly raised, and he pulled his hand back, keeping hold of the bottle, his eyes blazing. Making Oliver freeze. 

He’d never seen Elio like this. 

“You’re drunk,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. 

But Elio just looked away. “I wanted to be.”

“I’m not going to leave you out here on your own.”

“Why?” Elio turned to him again, looking up. His eyes were bright. “Isn’t that what you did, anyway? You were fine leaving me then. You can leave me here now. I’m not in any more danger than I was when you left the first time.”

Oliver swallowed. 

Fuck.

“We can talk later, but I don’t think you should be out here on your own drinking now, so please come with me.”

Elio was on his feet in an instant. 

“Why should I do what you say? Huh? Who do you think you are? To me?”

“Elio.”

“Stop! Stop talking to me like I’m a child!” Elio’s voice was raised again, and this time, there were tears in his eyes, one already starting to slide down his reddened cheek. 

He placed a hand on Oliver’s chest, pushed. 

“I am not a fucking child, Oliver, I’m not your fucking child, go back to your wife and your life and leave me alone!”

The tears were streaking down his cheeks now, and he raised a hand to wipe away at them angrily, not moving his eyes from Oliver’s. The wine bottle, forgotten, fell from his fingers, ending onto the pavement, shattered. 

The noise made him startle, and Elio took a step back, his eyes widening, as if he’d just realised what had happened. What he’d done. 

“Come on,” Oliver said, softly. Reached out, slowly, carefully, to take Elio’s wrist into his hand. He was shaking. 

“Come on. Let’s go inside. Please.” 

Elio was rigid, his face still wet with tears. Oliver felt his heart squeeze. 

“You’re alright,” he murmured gently. “Everything’s alright. Just come with me.”

Oliver took Elio to his room. Made him drink a glass of water. Made him lay down, took off his shoes. Checked that he had his eyes closed, hopefully about to fall asleep. 

His heart was hurting. 

Why was Elio feeling so down and sad that he was drinking out there on his own? He felt angry with Michel. How did he not notice? Elio had never been that good of an actor that he could cover up his feelings completely. His emotions were always so evident on his face - sometimes even just in his voice. How could Michel not have seen?

But then, he felt ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t blame Michel, not completely. He knew he himself had a lot to answer in that whole mess. 

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Oliver thought he’d imagined Elio’s voice. But the boy had spoken, for real. Oliver looked at him, and found that he still had his eyes closed, still laying curled up on the mattress, shivering a little. Oliver wasn’t sure if he was asleep; was scared of checking, didn’t want to risk waking him up if he was finally resting. 

He softly, gently, stroked his hair, the back of his head. 

“You’re not alone, baby.”

Elio closed his eyes tighter, the frown between his eyebrows deepening, crinkling the bridge of his nose. 

“Don’t leave. Please.”

And Oliver sighed. 

He refused to think. Elio needed him, now. Michel would have to understand. 

“Sleep,” he encouraged, in a whisper, laying on his side next to Elio carefully, stroking his hair and watching Elio’s body give in to unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter to bring the plot a little forward. Please leave me a comment if you’re still reading! Xx


	14. Chapter 14

When Elio appeared, the next morning, outside by the breakfast table, Oliver, already sat down and drinking his coffee, looked up, checked his face. 

He looked pale. His eyes downturned. As he hugged himself, standing there, unsure, as if still not feeling well, he looked even smaller and skinnier; Oliver berated himself for not realising how much weight he had lost.

“Hey,” Oliver greeted. He pulled one of the chairs back, patted the seat. The sun was shining, and the air was warm - it was a another pleasant day to be outside, having breakfast in the patio of the villa. “Come, sit. The coffee’s still hot.”

Elio nodded, and then walked over, sat down. 

Oliver poured the coffee from the pot into Elio’s cup. Moved the plate of croissants closer to him, a silent encouragement to eat something.

“How’s your head?”

He watched, as Elio closed his eyes, the bridge of his nose crinkling. He batted his eyelashes open and then looked down, cupped his hands around his mug. His hair was messy, curls in disarray.

“I’m okay.” Elio just said. Took a sip of his coffee. 

And then Oliver was about to speak, when Elio continued, quietly. 

“Oliver, I’m... I’m sorry. For last night. I got drunk, I - that was embarrassing. I’m sorry for anything I said.”

Oliver bit his lower lip. How much did Elio remember?

“It’s alright.” He wasn’t sure he could ask. He didn’t want to upset Elio again. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“But, you know,” Elio looked away. “Thanks for - being there. For helping.”

“I’m not sure I’ve done anything but - of course. Of course, anytime.”

Oliver tried for a smile. He really wanted to reach out, squeeze Elio’s hand in his. But, truthfully, he was scared of it. Apprehensive. As much as Oliver wanted to shorten the distance between them - as much as he’d loved to have Elio in his arms, for a little while, that night - perhaps Elio wasn’t ready. Perhaps that was not what Elio wanted. 

And so Oliver just smiled, looking at those green eyes in front of him, red-rimmed and hungover-tired.

“Good morning,” Michel’s French accent greeted, as the man appeared on the door, a smile on his face. 

Elio straightened up on his chair, ran a hand through his hair.

“Hey, Michel. Hi.”

“Are you feeling a little better, mon cher?” The older man asked, walking towards them until he was next to Elio and could lean down, kiss the boy on the lips. 

Elio smiled up at him.

“Yes, yes, much better. I was just - going to get ready for our trip.”

Elio stood, then, finished the last of his coffee. Michel smiled at him again.

“Oh, marvellous. Shall I wait for you here, then? I’ve showered already. So the bathroom is all yours.”

Elio smiled back, and nodded.

“Yeah. I’ll be right back.” And then, looking over: “See you later, Oliver.”

Once they were alone, Michel sat down at the other side of the table. Poured himself some coffee, took a slice of bread. He didn’t seem like he was going to start a conversation; and so Oliver did it for him. 

“Can I talk to you?”

Michel looked up from his coffee. He seemed surprised.

“Huh? Yes, sure.”

And Oliver took a deep breath.

“Elio was drinking out here alone last night. Where were you?”

A beat.

“He said he wanted to be on his own for a while. Why?”

Oliver shook his head, broke off a piece of bread, absentmindedly.

“I don’t know. I just thought, as his boyfriend, you wouldn’t have left him here alone, when he was clearly upset and lonely.”

“I didn’t know he was upset,” Michel’s eyes stared straight at him. “I did what he asked me to do. I don’t intend to - overwhelm him, or - go against his wishes.”

“Sometimes people we love don’t know how to ask for help. It’s our job to read between the lines,” Oliver said, his voice raised. Surprised himself, for the vehemence with which his words were uttered.

Michel raised his chin. “Is this what you’ve done, then?” This time, his accent was hard; no longer lilting. “When I saw you coming out of his room, at three am this morning? You - were helping him?”

Oliver took a breath. 

“Nothing happened.” He hated the way he felt he needed to defend himself. Defend the both of them.

“Oh, I know,” Michel still had his eyes planted in Oliver’s, and smirked, bitterly. “I know nothing happened. I’ve asked Elio.”

Oliver’s eyes went wide at that. What?

“You’ve - you’ve asked him??”

“Yes, I have.”

“A whole lot of trust that you have then, in your relationship.”

Michel’s eyes flashed.

“Are you saying there’s no reason for me to be distrustful?”

His voice was firm, clear. And Oliver didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond, of course.

He held Michel’s eyes, set his jaw.

Michel nodded, slowly.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” he started, stood from his chair, used a napkin to dab at his mouth. “I am going to go on a trip to Como with my boyfriend. I don’t think you want to join us, do you, Oliver?”

The question was loaded with sarcasm, with bitterness, and Oliver wasn’t enough of a fool not to detect that. He kept quiet, while Michel gave him another look, and then waved at him, disappeared inside the villa, on his way to join Elio for their day together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments comments?


	15. Chapter 15

Michel held Elio’s hand as they walked together, along the shore of the lake. 

It was a weekday, and not many people were around - though Michel had never had many qualms about holding hands with him, wherever they were.

The sun shone, the air was warm, pleasant. Elio took a breath, reminded himself to relax.

“I’ve had a good day so far,” Michel said, and Elio could feel him smile. And so he turned towards him, smiled, too. 

“Yeah. Me too.”

Michel squeezed his hand.

“Want to stop here for a moment?”

Elio frowned, lightly, but kept the smile on his face. “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t know why Michel wanted to stop - they’d said they’d walk to the bar to get a drink. 

But it was fine. The view was nice - the waterline of the lake glittered with the rays of the sun that reflected on the surface; the tree were in their full, green splendour, undulating in the gentle breeze. The air smelled nice. 

It was almost cliche, how beautiful everything was. 

Michel squeezed his hand again, and Elio brought his eyes back to him, smiled once more.

And then, Michel went down on one knee.

“Hey, what - what are you doing,” Elio asked, eyes wide. “Michel, what-“

“I know I can’t ask you to marry me,” Michel started. Looking up at Elio, beaming. His eyes gleamed with mischief, but were also intense. “But you know I would.”

Elio’s heart had skipped a beat, and he breathed.

“Michel, what are you doing, you’re crazy, get up...”

“- but since I can’t ask you to marry me, I will ask you something else. Something similar,” Michel just continued, his smile growing bigger. There was a nervous look in his eyes, now, though it was also hopeful.

“Move in with me?”

Elio felt his heart drum in his chest. He’d known this might be coming, yes. But, if he were honest - he’d forgotten all about it. He wasn’t expecting it. Not here, not now. Not after what happened, not after Michel asked him, clearly, point blank, if something had happened with Oliver. 

Not after Elio had lied to him about it.

His heart was beating fast, and he felt light headed. Had to swallow, to find his voice again. “You’re - you’re being silly. Please stand up,” he told Michel, reaching for his hand, tugging it so that the older man would stand up.

Then, Elio took his hand back. Tangled his fingers with the other hand’s, wrangling them together. 

He didn’t know what to say, this was... this was a surprise. This was too soon. Too much, now. 

He couldn’t look at Michel in the eyes, and so he looked away, frowning, his face tense.

“What do you think?” Michel pushed, his voice gentle. 

Elio looked back towards him.

“I - I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say yes,” Michel reached out with his hand to stroke Elio’s face, his rougher fingers skimming the smooth skin of his cheeks, his chin.

Elio swallowed. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t do this.

“Michel, I -“ he started, swallowed again. Started once more. “I - I’m sorry. I can’t, just now. I wish I could, but, but I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Michel frowned, uncomprehending.

Elio closed his eyes, looked down. 

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I just - it’s not the right time. I just can’t.”

He knew he wasn’t making much sense. He knew it must sound illogical, to Michel. They’d been together for long enough, this was something they both knew was going to be the next step in their relationship.

And Michel was being romantic, trying to ask him in the best of ways. 

Elio knew Michel would be confused.

And the older man tilted his head, his eyes questioning.

“What do you mean, not the right time?”

His voice had become harder, less warm. And Elio swallowed again, looked up into his older lover’s eyes, his own wide, and begging for understanding.

“I have - I have been doing some thinking. You know. And - and I think, perhaps we should take some time.”

“Time?” Michel seemed speechless, only repeating Elio’s words.

“Yes, to - to find out what’s going on, to - to think about the future, to decide what’s next.”

“I already know what’s next for me. I already know what I want, and it’s what I asked you just now.” Michel’s jaw was set. His eyes bright.

Elio looked down, then back up at him, tentatively. His own hands were trembling; his skin felt cold as ice. 

He hated doing this, especially when he was still so confused.

“You’re right, I should have said it better. I need some time. I would like to have some time. I want to be sure, of - of us, of me, of what is going to happen. I’m - I’m twenty seven, now, and I want - I want to know what’s next, I want to choose it carefully.” He lowered his voice, tried to be as gentle as possible. “I owe it, to both of us.”

Michel didn’t speak, for the longest of time. 

He held Elio’s eyes, his own hard, frowning. Then he ran a hand through his grey hair, looked away, hands on his waist, to the lake, the trees, the perfect sky, the perfect day that surrounded them. 

Elio closed his eyes for one long moment, and took a breath, trying to calm the beats of his heart.

When Michel spoke again, his voice was flat. 

“Are you saying you’re leaving me, then?”

Elio blinked, his eyes wide again. 

“No, I - I just need some time. I just need some time to - think. I’m not - I’m not leaving.”

Michel stared, and he seemed disbelieving. Suspicious. Then, he looked away, nodded. 

“I think we should go back to the villa.” 

His voice was flat. Grave. Elio could tell he was still thinking - knew him well enough to know he was trying to find a possible cause, in his mind, to explain Elio’s decision, something to clear the confusion that he must be experiencing. 

But if Elio couldn’t understand himself what was happening in his heart, how could Michel?

The older man turned around, started walking back towards their car, parked beyond the edge of the park. Elio hung his head, and followed him, quietly. 

“Michel asked me to move in with him,” Elio told Oliver that evening, just before dinner. They stood outside, in the patio, smoking a cigarette. They’d been there for a while, in silence, before Elio spoke, softly. 

Oliver’s eyes had gone wide. 

“Oh, really?”

Elio nodded. 

“I told him I can’t. I told him I need some time.”

He watched, as Oliver’s blue eyes widened even more, genuine surprise in his gaze. Elio would have chuckled, if he weren’t feeling like he wanted to hide in a corner of his room, and never come out again. 

“Does that mean...”

“It means I’m taking some time. Yes,” Elio repeated, firmly. Looked down, to his feet. 

“Elio, I - I think you’re doing the right thing,” Oliver’s voice was soft. 

And Elio chuckled, quietly; kept his eyes on the ground, at his feet on the gravel. 

The silence after that seemed to stretch forever. 

Elio finished his cigarette; ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame the wild curls into submission. He must look in such disarray. 

He felt as if Oliver was waiting to speak, but no words came from him. And Elio didn’t dare look up, and look him in the eyes. 

“I’m going to see how my dad’s doing,” he said finally, unable to stand there, in silence, for any longer. And as he walked back inside, he felt Oliver’s gaze follow him. 


	16. Chapter 16

“And then you went into that bar. With all those guys that were like, sixty years old, you were the only young person in there. I thought, what? How does he even know them?”

Elio was chuckling as he recounted his memory, his cheeks pinched with laughter, looking at Oliver. And Oliver laughed with him, obviously, amused, because really they’d never told each other some of these stories.

He took a drag from his cigarette, looking out at the orchard, and feeling the rays of sun warm his skin. “Honestly, I was bored the first few days. And I was desperate to learn some Italian. I got here and met you, with your three fluent languages, and I felt like I could barely even speak English.”

Elio chuckled again. “Sure, yeah.”

“It’s true,” Oliver protested, playfully. “But then things got better. I learned a few words. And you started being a little nicer to me.”

He looked, mirth in his gaze, as Elio narrowed his eyes at him, and then threw the peel of an apple at him.

“Hey!”

“That’s for saying that I wasn’t nice.”

“You weren’t.”

Another peel.

“If you don’t stop, I’ll throw the core at you, too!”

And that’s when Michel and Samuel walked out into the patio and found them laughing like children. Samuel smiled, said ‘while you’re busy playing food wars I’m going to go and check on the apricot trees’, and walked to the orchard.

Michel didn’t react. Just kept his eyes inexpressive, sat at the other side of the table, poured himself some water.

Elio breathed to calm himself down, and smiled at him. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” Michel replied. Oliver could see that he kept his eyes on Elio, avoiding him carefully.

“Oliver and I are going to drive to Crema today. Oliver wants to visit his old editor, see how he’s doing, but - he needs someone who speaks Italian with him, just in case he can’t find him.”

Oliver looked away, pretended to be fully focussed on watching Samuel pick apricots - but he listened, of course. Tried not to show how tense he felt when Michel was around them.

“Oh,” Michel said. “I mean. Sure, okay. But you know - I was planning on leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes I remember,” Elio spoke, his words rushed, apologetic. Oliver still refused to turn towards them. “We won’t be long. We can have dinner together tonight, maybe in Moscazzano? You haven’t seen it yet.”

There was a moment of pause, in which Michel did not respond. 

Oliver kept his jaw set. He hated this. He hated that Michel still had a claim on Elio, on his time - could make him feel guilty and wrong for not being with him. 

Oliver perfectly knew this was not how relationships work, that feelings and habits don’t change from one day to the other - oh, yes, he definitely knew. It had taken him months to decide he wanted to end his own marriage.

And yet. His chest burned, with something. He didn’t want to name it, but he knew it was jealousy. 

Fear.

“Alright, honey. I will wait for you to come back.”

Michel’s voice was soft and calm, and Oliver almost wondered if he was doing it for his benefit, to irritate him even further. Because he knew he had power. 

He heard the noise of a chair being pulled back; and then Elio spoke.

“Just going to change my shirt.” It was obviously directed at Oliver, and so Oliver turned to look at him. “I’ll be back in five minutes, then we can go?”

Oliver nodded. “Yes. No problem.”

And then, once Elio had disappeared inside the house, Oliver cleared his throat. 

He put out his cigarette on his plate; made to stand up, too.

“I know you are trying to get him back.”

Oliver looked up at Michel. “What?”

Michel smiled, and it was bitter. “Don’t pretend with me. I’m French, but I’m not stupid.”

Oliver breathed.

“I don’t follow.”

“You are trying to get him to come back to you. I know this, I can see it. Hell, even the trees can see it.”

“Whatever you think I’m doing, it shouldn’t concern you,” Oliver said, stood up. Despite himself, his whole body felt tense. He was irritated.

“Oh no? It shouldn’t concern me that you are hitting on my partner?” Michel said, and stood up too, his fists down on the table.

Oliver wanted to roll his eyes, wanted to tell him to leave him alone. “You are acting like some sixteen year old schoolgirl, Michel. Shouldn’t you know better?” he said instead.

“I would argue you are acting like a teenager, too. Even though we are not in some American high school,” Michel hissed.

Oliver closed his eyes. Took a breath, to try and keep himself level-headed; spoke, as calmly as he could, but his words dripped tension, irritation. Anger.

“What you think I’m doing with Elio shouldn’t concern you because Elio is a free person. No one can make him come back to me. Anymore than they can make him stay with you, if he doesn’t want to.”

The silence, after, weighed heavy between them. Michel stared at him, unflinchingly, though his jaw twitched. And Oliver held his eyes but then looked away, reminding himself of where he was, of the fact that Elio was going to come down soon.

Samuel arriving back from the orchard right then broke the silence, made him almost jump.

“Right, friends. I think maybe we all need something to do, now, huh? Too much sitting around is not good, Anchise would tell you if he were here! Who wants to help me carry these apricots inside?”

Oliver cleared his throat, forced himself to give Samuel a small smile to show him that everything was fine. Samuel’s dark eyes were looking at him, part worried, and part surprised; Oliver knew the older man had guessed exactly what was going on. Heard their last words, hissed at each other like by two dogs fighting for their territory.

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I need to meet Elio inside, he’s probably waiting for me. See you later, Professor,” Oliver said, and walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter to tidy you over. I hope you don’t mind! X


	17. Chapter 17

Oliver was conversing with his old friend, the editor he’d worked with back during his time in Italy. Half in English, half in broken Italian, whatever he remembered, Elio guessed.

From his spot in the piazzetta, cigarette in hand, Elio watched them, watched Oliver. The way he used his hands to accompany his words, which Elio couldn’t hear - and yet he felt as if we could tell what he was talking about.

The sun shone, warmed his skin, made him squint to look, and yet Elio kept watching, as if it were a show he didn’t want to miss. 

Oliver was always a show. Just like ten years ago. And right now, Elio felt as if he’d gone back in time.

Once Oliver concluded his conversation, he shook the other man’s hand, and started walking back towards Elio, a huge smile on his face. 

Elio stumped his cigarette, smiled, seeing Oliver smile.

“Interesting conversation?”

“He’s keeping well. I’m glad.”

Elio nodded. He brought his hand up, towards his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun to look up at Oliver.

“Want to grab a drink?”

Oliver nodded back, smile still in place.

“Why not. I owe you, you had to stand here and wait for me.”

Elio shook his head, and wanted to say that he’d loved it, loved to be able to observe him, again, like he used to. But he only chuckled low, instead, followed Oliver as the older man walked to the little bar in the corner. 

“It felt weird. Watching you chat, earlier. I felt like I’d gone back in time,” Elio said. Took a sip of his Estathe.

Oliver looked up at him; his eyes were very blue that day. 

“How so?”

“I don’t know. Just, us, here, in Crema, the sun, you and your editor,” Elio shrugged; looked back down, suddenly embarrassed. “It‘s stupid, isn’t it.”

“No, no. Of course not. I just - I wasn’t aware you’d watched me, back then.”

Elio felt his face warm up, and he was sure it wasn’t the sun, then, having that effect on him.

“I mean, not in a weird way,” he rushed to explain. “I mean. You know what I mean.”

He chanced a look up, back towards Oliver’s eyes, and found them gazing at him. Intensely.

“You said something like this, back then, too.”

Elio cleared his throat.

“Did I?”

“Yes.” Oliver’s voice was quiet. “We went to the berm, after. I kissed you for the first time that day.”

He was quiet then, but Elio couldn’t make himself look up, didn’t dare let his eyes meet Oliver’s, though he could feel his gaze on himself, so clearly, on his face, on his skin, boiling hot with nervousness and emotion.

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to - I promised I wasn’t going to bring up - things from the past. Forgive me,” Oliver was quick to say, then, when Elio failed to utter a word. 

Elio raised his face; blinked. Oliver was still looking at him, but his face was serious, every trace of flirting erased. 

“Maybe we should get going?” he asked, softly. 

And Elio nodded, still feeling like he couldn’t speak, and yet like he had so many things to say. 

Oliver had wanted to drive on the way back, and Elio was glad of it. Because he wanted to just think; to look outside the car window, feel the gentle breeze coming in, know that he had Oliver by his side, and think. Think about what had just happened. Think about memories. 

He still kept his eyes on the road outside when he spoke. 

“I loved spending time with you. You know? Back then,” he said, in a whisper. “Yes, I liked watching you at the beginning, but then when you - when you stopped keeping me at a distance, it all became... I thought I’d become the happiest person on earth.”

Oliver was driving slowly; he turned towards Elio, gave him a long look. He knew there was more. 

“I loved sleeping in your bed. The way you held me during the night. How there was no - no distance between us, between our faces, when we talked, before falling asleep. I loved how we had two rooms at that hotel in Bergamo and yet - we slept in the same bed, of course, but - it felt so natural. I felt so happy, back then. So grateful.”

He waited for a few moments; he could feel Oliver’s glances towards him. His voice was caressing when he spoke. 

“I remember.”

Elio turned around. Just for one, tiny little moment; met Oliver’s eyes, and looked down. God, he was blushing. 

“I loved that you were my first. Like that was something that I could tell everyone, if I wanted to. This handsome, intelligent, athletic American man is who I lost my virginity to.”

There was jest in his tone, and Oliver understood, chuckled briefly in response. 

“Athletic, huh?” He asked gently. 

“You were so much bigger than me. You could lift me up if you wanted to! I was so desperate for you that first night, I literally jumped you.”

It made Oliver chuckle again, raise his eyebrows in soft teasing, and Elio laughed, too. 

This felt so good. So easy. When had it started becoming so easy again? Just like back then, after they’d held hands, and sealed their summer promise to each other. 

The car squeaked a little on the gravel, and the villa appeared around the corner - they were home, and Elio found himself wishing for a little more time in the car, alone with Oliver. 

Only when the car stuttered to a halt, Oliver spoke again.

“Why are you with Michel, Elio?”

His voice was firm, but soft, his question just about whispered. His blue eyes held Elio’s intensely - and Elio felt that he really wanted to look away, but couldn’t. 

“It’s - it’s difficult. You know that.”

“You don’t love him. Do you want to be with him, even without being in love with him?”

Elio blinked at the direct question, and frowned, bit the inside of his lower lip. He wasn’t expecting that. “Oliver...” he shook his head, looked down. His heart beating faster. 

“I love you.” Oliver’s voice was still quiet, but trembled. “I love you, Elio.”

And Elio was stunned. Speechless. 

“I...”

“I’ve wanted to tell you since the day I kissed you. I’m sorry I haven’t yet, I’m sorry I was a coward. I’m sorry, baby.”

Elio felt like he couldn’t breathe, and yet, somehow, he managed to shake his head, look down, then back up into Oliver’s eyes. 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Oliver covered his hand with one of his

“I do. And I can only hope you forgive me.”

His breath gone, his heart in his throat, Elio could not look away from Oliver’s eyes, the older man looking at him, so intensely and yet so carefully, so reverent. 

He cleared his throat, and was just about to speak - though to say what, he wasn’t sure - when Michel’s voice called his name. 

And Elio’s head snapped towards the window, to look at the path by where they were parked, at Michel standing in front of the entrance to the villa.

“Elio. You’re back? We should go soon.”

Elio felt his heart beat a million times a second right then. He felt pulled in two directions. He looked at Oliver, and his eyes were still staring, unchanged. Intense. 

“I - I have to go. For tonight. I have to, you understand.”

Oliver sighed, nodded curtly. “I do.”

“Okay,” Elio took a breath, tried to steel himself. He didn’t even know what was happening to him. “I -have to go,” he repeated, needlessly, feeling stupid. “But I’ll be back, and - we can keep talking. Okay? I will see you after.”

He paused, watching Oliver, waiting for him to nod. Wanting to make sure he understood. Wanting to make sure he knew he wasn’t abandoning him, wasn’t abandoning this. 

He would be back. Tonight. After he’d spoken to Michel. 

He needed to end things with him. 

Oliver nodded, and smiled, tenderly. “Okay. Yeah. After.”

And Elio nodded again; took a deep breath, and climbed out of the car. 

He told Michel he needed to freshen up before they drove into Moscazzano for dinner. 

His hands were trembling as he looked at himself in the mirror. His heart, still beating fast. 

He needed to break up with Michel. He was going to do it tonight. Michel was going to have to understand. This was what Elio had waited for for the past ten years - no, for all his life. From before he even met Oliver. 

Oliver was the most important person. His person. He couldn’t lose him again. 

He set his jaw, stroked his palms down the front of his shirt to try and get rid of the creases. Took another deep breath, and made himself leave the room. 

He padded slowly downstairs. The light was on in his mother’s library, he could see it from the door which was open a sliver, was Oliver there? He walked over, quietly, he’d tell him he was leaving now and would be back in a couple of hours if it was him. 

And it was, indeed, Oliver. And he was on the phone, the cable swinging gently as he talked, standing by Annella’s old desk. 

What he was saying made Elio freeze on the spot. 

“I would love to see you, please, come. No, I’m not going to tell him. He doesn’t know anything. It will be fine, I promise.  I can come pick you up at the station, any time.”

Elio’s heart seemed to want to stop, and then start again, stuttering and skipping beats. Who was Oliver talking to?

He knew who. He just knew. 

Oliver was playing with his feelings again. 

Oliver was going to break his heart, just like ten years ago.

“Elio, mon cheri? Shall we?” Michel said, walking towards him with a smile. 

Elio nodded, found it impossible to speak. He followed Michel outside to the car, his mind and heart in turmoil.


	18. Chapter 18

Elio was quiet for a lot of the car ride into town.

Michel did most of the talking. Asked him questions, commented on the weather, on Italy, on what he’d seen on tv. On Samuel’sskills at cards. 

Elio nodded, answered, sometimes, when he felt he needed to. Kept his eyes on the view outside the car window, while the taxi driver changed the radio station to the tense voices of a political commentary, and the evening sky turned darker as they approached Crema.

Elio didn’t mean to be bad company - he just couldn’t stop thinking. Of Oliver, of what he’d just heard. 

He wanted to stop thinking but he couldn’t, and what was worse, he felt full of adrenaline yet confused, paralysed. Angry.

Not even an hour ago, everything had been clear for him. In his head. Oliver had told him that he loved him. Oliver had told him that he loved him and Elio knew he had to end things with Michel, for good, because - because of course he felt the same. He loved Oliver too.

And now, now it all had changed. So suddenly. Now Elio was afraid again. 

He’d remembered that Oliver was a married man - a married man in the midst of a divorce, yes, but still a married man, who, for all that Elio knew, could change his mind any time. 

He didn’t really know Oliver, did he? He’d only known him for six weeks, ten years before. And now, he was so ready to just jump back into his arms, throw all his life away, at the first light of a new chance with him. 

He should have really known better.

He tried to stop thinking while they were at dinner. It was difficult - and his heart still beat faster, his thoughts still jumbled - and so he welcomed Michel’s offer of wine when it came. Soon, two glasses of red turned into three, and Elio felt his cheeks warm up. He made himself eat his food; he laughed with Michel, chased away thoughts of Oliver the moment they came.

“It’ll be weird being back in Paris tomorrow,” Michel said, as they walked out of the restaurant later. He wrapped his arm around Elio’s waist. It was as if nothing had changed. As if Elio had never told him he needed to think. As if Elio had never turned down his proposal of moving in together. 

Elio let him hold him. This is how it was supposed to be.

“I’m hoping you’ll come back with me, cherie,” Michel’s voice was low, caressing. He stopped, by the side of the empty piazzetta, and his other arm wrapped around Elio’s waist too, bringing their chests flush together. 

Elio looked up. Let Michel look into his eyes.

Yes. He could go back with Michel. 

He should.

Leave Oliver. Leave all this behind. Go back to real life. He had been lingering in the past for too long.

And yet, he couldn’t make himself say the words. He blamed the alcohol. He felt warm, light. He felt defenceless. He felt like he didn’t want to defend himself.

And so, when Michel smiled at him, and leant in, kissing him on the mouth, at first Elio didn’t react. At first, he went along with it. Let himself be kissed.

But then, he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and pulled back.

This didn’t feel right. Why did he feel so confused?

“You’re so beautiful,” Michel murmured, and his voice was soft. He was warm with alcohol, too. “Will you let me make love to you when we get home?”

Home.

Home. Michel, asking him to have sex. Michel asking him to go back to Paris with him the next day.

Michel, his boyfriend.

Why did it all feel so wrong?

“I can’t - I can’t do this now,” Elio replied, taking a step back, though Michel’s arms didn’t let him go. “Michel, please.”

“Okay. We’ll go home, now, then.” Michel kept an arm around him, turned to look for a taxi.

“No, I -“ Elio took another step back until Michel let him go. “I can’t. I just can’t do this, Michel.”

From where he was looking at the main street, the older man turned back towards him.

“Elio?”

“I can’t go on. I can’t be with you. I’m sorry.”

Elio’s voice was trembling, and he felt breathless because of how fast his heart was beating.

He held Michel’s eyes - his dark eyes even darker in that moment, questioning, confused. 

“You’re my boyfriend.” Michel’s voice, now, was steely.

Elio shook his head.

“No, I... I’m sorry. I can’t be. Not anymore.”

He knew he should really find more to say. He knew he wasn’t being helpful, he wasn’t making it easy. But he couldn’t make himself put more words together. Suddenly, he was exhausted. Suddenly, he wanted to be home, hiding in a room, just him and his thoughts and his silence. 

He watched as Michel shook his head.

“You know, Elio,” the older man started. He talked quietly. “I haven’t been understanding you lately. You’re like a - wild animal. You’re skittish, you - pull away. From my hands. You say one thing, you want to do another. I don’t understand you.”

Elio felt nauseous. He nodded, closed his eyes.

“I know. But now I told you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have been a disgusting person.”

For a moment, Michel didn’t respond. He just looked at Elio, thinking.

“The marriage canard,” he murmured, almost to himself, with a bitter chuckle. “He calls you to him and you, you just go...”

“No,” Elio shook his head, frowned. No, no, that wasn’t it. “He doesn’t want me. I am not leaving you because of him.”

Michel was quiet for a moment. Stared at Elio, as if appraising him, as if observing and cataloguing every corner of him, every detail of his body, of his face, of his anguished expression. 

Then he spoke.

“He wants you. He wants you with the same exact desire that you want him.” He didn’t look away, but sighed, swallowed. “I can never love you enough to steal you away from him.”

“You’re not- you don’t have to steal me...” Elio tried - but Michel spoke again. 

“Oh yes. I had to steal you. And still, it didn’t work.”

Elio could only swallow, even though he wanted to shake his head again, say that he was mistaken, that what he was saying wasn’t true. But he couldn’t lie to himself. Michel’s words told the truth.

And Michel was upset. Angry, even, his feelings perhaps exacerbated and made worse by the alcohol. 

Elio looked down, tried to breathe, even though he felt like, all of a sudden, his life was falling apart from all sides, in a way that he couldn’t avoid. 

And this time, it was Michel who didn’t speak for the whole taxi ride home.

It gave Elio a chance to think. As much as guilt burned in his chest, he knew he had done the right thing. He couldn’t keep being with Michel, not when he was so confused, and not when Michel obviously wanted so much more.

As they climbed out of the car outside the villa, and the taxi left, Michel stood still - and Elio stopped walking, too, looked at him.

“I need some time,” Michel said, and the implication was clear - go ahead inside, he wasn’t going to walk in with him. Elio almost wanted to say something - but what? He felt like a hypocrite at the mere thought.

God. This was such a mess.

He just nodded, meekly, and walked to the front door. But once inside, after taking a deep breath, after all thoughts of Oliver came back to him like a flood, he set his jaw, made his decision. 

He climbed up the staircase, went into his and Michel’s room, and started gathering his clothes, packing them into his suitcase. 

Elio awoke early, the day after, with a headache that clawed at his temples. He’d taken his suitcase and slept in the spare room, the one next to Oliver’s, but he’d made sure to keep the door well closed.

And just as he had put on a t-shirt and pants, with the intention of going downstairs, and speak to his dad, there was a knock on the door.

“Elio? It’s me.”

Elio froze at hearing Oliver’s voice. He stood, still; not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to see him.

The door opened, gently, before he could do anything; and Oliver peeked inside, opened it a little more so that he could step in.

“You okay? Thought I would see you last night.”

Oliver’s face was calm, his eyes clear. There was a soft smile on his face.

Elio swallowed, and looked away, to his suitcase on the floor. He needed to finish packing.

Oliver noticed it too.

“You packing?”

“Yeah,” Elio nodded, but avoided Oliver’s eyes. “I’m going back to Paris tonight.”

“What? Why?”

Elio cleared his throat, kept his eyes on the suitcase, suddenly realising he hadn’t prepared an excuse to use should this question come. 

He rushed a reply. “Something came up.”

“Something, like what?” Oliver took another step towards him. “I thought we - “

“What?” Elio turned towards him, now, looked into his face. “What did you think? That you could have some fun with me now?”

Oliver’s eyes were still clear, but wide, seemed uncomprehending. 

Of course. He didn’t know that Elio had overheard him last night.

“Did - something happen?” Oliver asked, and his voice was tentative. “Where’s Michel?”

The mention of his name made Elio look away again, a shadow of tears stinging at his eyes at the reminder of his ex-boyfriend. Who now probably hated him. 

Elio turned back to Oliver, and set his jaw, raised his chin, in defiance.

“Michel’s gone to the airport. He’s going back to Paris this morning. I ended it with him, last night.”

“Oh,” Oliver took a breath. Nodded. “I’m sorry if you- I’m sorry if you’re upset.”

“No, you’re not.” Elio looked into his eyes, still, and his voice was icy. “You’re not sorry. Even worse, you don’t care.”

Oliver held his eyes, looked confused.

“Elio...”

And Elio could not keep it inside anymore.

“I heard you last night,” he said, forcing his voice to keep steady, praying for his eyes to stay dry. “I heard you last night, talking to someone, making plans to bring them here. Not giving a shit about me. About what you told me.”

“Last night, I-“ Oliver shook his head, frowning, looking like he couldn’t remember.

“Over the phone! When you locked yourself into the study! You thought you could keep it a secret! From me!”

Elio’s voice had risen, and his hands trembled. He hated that Oliver was seeing him that way, but he couldn’t help it.

But then, Oliver’s face changed. 

His eyes widened again, for just one moment, and then - he smiled. He shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Elio,” he started, but the boy turned away.

“Spare me, Oliver.”

Oliver chuckled gently.

“No, Elio. You need to hear this.” Elio wasn’t looking, but he heard him stepping closer. “Yes, I was keeping something secret. But not just from you. From your dad, too.” Oliver’s hand reached to touch the side of Elio’s face, nudging it gently to bring his gaze back to his. “I did want to bring someone here. But that someone is your mom.”

It was time for Elio’s eyes to widen.

“My - my mom?”

Oliver shook his head again, smiled, tenderly. “Yes. Your mom. I convinced her to come here, to see us - to see your dad. Because he misses her, and she misses him,” he explained, softly, looking into Elio’s eyes. They were still wide; the boy’s lips opened, as he listened, in something like shock. In the realisation that he had completely misunderstood.

“You and me - we reunited, this place - the villa brought us close again. I thought it could happen for them, too,” Oliver continued. Then, he sighed. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry you had to get worried.”

“So-,” Elio was hardly listening, his heart beating so fast he felt it in his throat, his cheeks on fire, in shame. “So - you were speaking to my mom? Not - not another person, not - your wife?”

“No, of course not,” Oliver shook his head again. “I was coming here this morning to tell you that she’s on her way, in a taxi, right now.”

He held Elio’s eyes, and Elio kept staring, his face still flushed, his heart doing somersaults.

He hadn’t even noticed he’d started crying, until he felt arms around him, enveloping, holding him tight against a muscular chest, the smell ever familiar and never forgotten, Oliver’s lips in his hair and his voice murmuring ‘it’s okay’ against his temple.


	19. Chapter 19

“How is this right,” Elio said, his voice low and breathy, in Oliver’s arms. He was sobbing. “How is this right, that I can’t - that I can’t trust you, that I always think - the worst.”

Holding him against himself, Oliver wanted to shake his head. It was as if Elio wasn’t really talking to him - wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, perhaps only to himself, trying to reason, but failing.

It wasn’t like Oliver could blame him.

“I’m sorry. For doing what I did. All I can say is - I’m sorry,” he murmured into Elio’s hair. 

He held the young man tighter against himself. He felt rigid, tense; he was letting Oliver hold him, but he wasn’t returning the embrace.

It was clear what Oliver was referring to, and yet he felt the need to explain, to clarify. To apologise again.

“I shouldn’t have left you. Back then, when we - I shouldn’t have left you, baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

His voice was low, tentative, begging. Elio’s hand, closed into a fist, pushed against Oliver’s chest even though he was still in the older man’s arm.

“I thought about you every day. Every fucking day. And then you called me and you - you told me you were getting married.” His voice broke; he was so rigid, that Oliver pulled back a tiny bit, to look into his face. Into his red eyes, full of tears, the sweaty curls stuck to his forehead. 

Oliver took Elio’s face into his palms, and stroked the hair back from the sides of his face.

Elio shook his head.

“I hated you. I hated you.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver repeated. He felt so dumb. So useless. “I’m sorry. Elio, I’m sorry. I had to. I had to do what I did.”

Elio took a long, tense breath. Brushed his tears angrily off his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt, and took a step back, forcing Oliver’s arms to let go.

“You had to get married?” His voice was rough, quiet. “You had to disappear, you had to - pretend we’d never even met?”

And Oliver didn’t know what to answer. 

Did he have to? Did he have to do all that he did?

At the time, he’d thought he should. His life was all prepared for him. His father wouldn’t have allowed anything out of the ordinary. And Elio was so young, so young - Oliver remembered vividly, thinking that Elio would be better off forgetting about him, about the strange American student who didn’t know how to cut open an egg and liked to spend the evenings alone to think. Elio would be much better off without him, he was going to move on and live his life just like he should. Oliver was certain that he was going to be the one to suffer, in the long term - not Elio.

“I thought you would be fine,” he tried, his voice tentative, just a whisper. “I thought you would be okay.”

“You thought I didn’t love you?”

The pain in Elio’s voice was so evident, that Oliver had to swallow. He couldn’t find words to answer.

Elio spoke again.

“Just because I was young it doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. It doesn’t mean I didn’t feel it.”

“I know. I know, Elio, I’m not-“

“No,” Elio interrupted. “You don’t know. You thought I would be fine, you told me - you told me you would be getting married, as if my heart wasn’t going to - break in two.”

Elio had stopped sobbing, but his cheeks were still streamed with tears. His eyes were bright, a deep, wounded hazel. But he was no longer crying. He stared, instead, breathing; waiting for Oliver to speak.

And when Oliver tried to, he found that his voice was shaking; he found that he, himself, was the one with tears in his eyes now.

“I have loved you. All these years. I know you don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you. But I have. I have thought of you every day of my life. It was a half life, Elio, I wasn’t really living... I was only alive when I was with you. When I had you in my arms, when I was inside you. When I kissed you.”

He didn’t even know where the words were coming from. It was like a dam had been broken - and he could hold Elio’s eyes and tell him, tell him everything. 

If he was going to lose him, then at least, he wouldn’t regret never having told him how he felt.

Elio blinked; swallowed again. When he spoke, his voice was so, so quiet.

“How do I know that this is true. How do I know that you’re not going to leave me again.”

It was a legitimate question; and Oliver knew it. 

He knew, too, that he didn’t have anything to offer, anything to prove that yes, it was true, that of course he wasn’t going to leave him again, of course. But he didn’t have anything, other than words, to offer.

He took a breath.

“I know you are scared to trust me. I know, and I understand.” His heart was beating fast, and he breathed again. He only had one chance to get this right. He couldn’t make more mistakes. “But I love you. I - wasn’t living, without you. You were everywhere. Always with me. And now that I am here with you, I - I can’t let you go.”

Elio was still listening, looking at him with wide eyes; waiting. 

Oliver continued.

“If you can, I am asking you to give me another chance. Give us, another chance. I don’t have anything to prove myself to you right now, aside from my words - but I will. You’ll see.”

He watched, as Elio swallowed. His eyes, still gleaming with tears, looked away for a moment.

“Elio. You’ll see,” Oliver murmured again. Aware that he was begging, but he didn’t care that he was. He was prepared to do anything not to lose Elio, not to let him slip through his fingers, now that he had him right there in front of him.

The boy looked back to him. His eyes, still wide, still hazel, were more limpid now. The tears that lingered on his eyelashes no longer streaked down his cheeks; only a little redness on his nose remained, as proof that he had cried. And it was endearing, and Oliver smiled, quietly, wanting to cry himself at the love he felt.

Elio swallowed, and then his expression became harder.

“You promise?”

You promise. Of course he promised. Of course, Oliver was going to promise anything that Elio asked, and he was going to keep the promise, too.

“I promise. I promise, baby.”

He let Elio look at him, stare, his eyes hard, appraising. Oliver’s heart still beat fast, but he was going to wait for Elio. Wait for him, for as long as he needed. He didn’t care.

A voice resounded from outside on the driveway. A female voice - Annella. “Sammy,” she said, and there was laughter; and then Samuel’s voice. “You’re here.”

Elio turned his face towards the window, and the corners of his mouth turned up a little, the shadow of a smile, and Oliver wanted to think they were imagining the same thing: Annella and Samuel, embracing, holding each other. Together again, in the villa.

When Elio turned back around towards Oliver, he looked down for a moment. Then, he took a deep breath; he walked to Oliver, wrapped his arms around the older man’s shoulders, and kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you have thoughts on the story I love reading what you think! X


	20. Chapter 20

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed.

His forehead creased in concentration, Elio cupped the sides of Oliver’s face, let the older man wrap his arms around his ribcage while they breathed into each other, their tongues touching, stroking, their lips and teeth seeking contact, hungry for each other.

Elio felt as if he was running out of breath, out of oxygen, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to. He remembered his old self of seventeen, ten years ago, in that same room and just as hungry for this man, just as desperate, clinging to his neck and body and just wanting, wanting.

It was Oliver who gently pulled away, after a few long minutes, his palms now holding Elio’s face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, like he’d do for a child, for something precious. 

Elio kept his eyes closed, his frown still in place; until he felt Oliver’s lips press against his forehead, warm.

“Don’t you want to go and greet your mom,” Oliver’s voice murmured softly against his skin. His thumbs stroked Elio’s cheekbones again. Elio opened his eyes.

“I want you,” he said, hardly even able to use his voice. “I want to have sex with you.”

Oliver smiled, and then chuckled - but it wasn’t teasing. It was tender.

“Are you sure? You don’t want -“

“I’ve waited ten years. Ten years, to be with you again,” Elio interrupted him, the fire in his chest making him breathe hard, making his heart beat fast inside his ribcage. “I didn’t even know if it would ever happen and I - I’ve waited for you every day.”

He wasn’t making any sense, he knew it, but all the same he let his eyes get lost in Oliver’s, didn’t care if he sounded desperate, if he looked debauched and lost and crazy. He didn’t care. He held on to Oliver, breathing through his mouth because his lungs, somehow, were struggling to work. He remembered that boy of ten years ago; he was that boy again, now.

“It made me crazy, to think of you with him.” Oliver was returning the same intense gaze, and his eyes burned. “It made me insane. You have no idea.”

Elio swallowed, his chest constricting, and shook his head, as much as he could with Oliver’s hands still holding his face. 

“Shhh. Shhh. I’m here, now. I’m - here. I’m yours, if you want me,” he breathed, his voice failing him.

He received another kiss on the mouth, and pushed himself up on his tips toes to deepen it. “Of course I want you,” Oliver answered.

And Elio found himself pushing up against Oliver again, harder, until the older man’s arms slid down his body, his hands under his backside, so that Elio could wrap his legs around his hips. Entwined like that, still kissing, blindly, Oliver carried him to the bed; deposited him carefully on the mattress, laid on top of him to keep kissing still.

“I couldn’t - I couldn’t do anything with - with him, ever since I saw you again.” Elio’s voice was still feeble, rough, yet he tried to speak again, though he didn’t even know what he wanted to say. Probably reassure Oliver, in some sort of way. In a misguided way, because Oliver’s hands held tighter around his face, his fingers pressing into Elio’s cheek and chin, holding him still as the older man leant his forehead against Elio’s once more.

“Don’t talk about him.”

It was a growl, low in his throat, and it made Elio swallow. He’d never thought Oliver could be this jealous; he’d never thought seeing him with another man could do this to him.

He swallowed once more, a frisson of something in his belly, in his chest, prompting him to speak again.

“I only love you. I only love you.”

The smile on Oliver’s face was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His blue eyes were still tumultuous, but his kisses were softer now, though still demanding, passionate.

He wasn’t letting him go, not allowing him a pause between kisses, but Elio managed to pull his shirt up and off all the same, let Oliver do the same to him. 

Arched his neck back when Oliver kissed and bit at his throat. Sunk his fingers into Oliver’s blond hair when the older man’s mouth descended on his collarbone, his sternum, his nipples.

“I remember everything,” Elio murmured, his skin on fire, so sensitive, so responsive to every touch from the man he so loved. “I remember this.”

Oliver pressed kisses to his chest, his flat abdomen, as his hands undid the buttons on his pants. 

“Is this okay.” His voice was as breathy, aslow as Elio’s was, when he replied. 

“Yes. Yes.”

More kisses. Oliver’s fingers stroking his hipbones as he removed Elio’s underwear; his hands stroking up his thighs, between his legs, making Elio arch his back.

“I want to do everything we did. Everything you like. I remember everything,” the boy babbled. His hands into Oliver’s hair.

And Oliver chuckled. 

“You remember,” his tone was gently teasing, his voice a deep purr. “Me fucking you...? Me, coming inside you?”

He was kissing him, all over, between words, and Elio was game, breathed heavily, held his fingers tighter in Oliver’s hair.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Me, sucking you off...” Oliver carried on with the kisses, his tone playful, mischievous. Flirty, dirty talk, that was setting Elio’s belly on fire. “And then you, sucking me off, after. Swallowing everything. That’s what I like.”

Elio chuckled, his eyes closed. When he opened them, he let his hands grab at Oliver’s shoulders and pulled him up, still on top of him but so that they were face to face. He wasn’t a young kid anymore - that kind of talk no longer made him blush. He could take it, and give it back.

“So what are you waiting for,” he growled on Oliver’s mouth, “fuck me. Come on.”

He remembered Oliver being big, but he didn’t remember the feeling of having him inside his body, the moment that bound them together, the moments after when he had to adjust, make the both of them comfortable in the cradle of his hips.

He didn’t ask Oliver to slow down, because he knew that seconds later it was going to get so much better, it was going to feel so good.

He held his hands in Oliver’s hair, and squeezed every time that Oliver pushed deeper, touched somewhere inside his body that made stars burst behind his eyelids. Oliver swore on his mouth - fuck, Elio, you feel so fucking good - and Elio’s sanity had left already, before he could even think that perhaps, after, perhaps he wanted to do it in a slower way, softer, more romantic. No, now it was all about desire, all about want, all about making up for lost time.

Time that had passed, but had also taught Elio more about what he liked, and so after a few long minutes he gently slowed Oliver down and made him lay down on his back, climbed over him, straddling him. He wanted to be in charge now for a little while, and Oliver didn’t object, but in fact rolled his eyes back, shut his eyelids when Elio’s tight body took him back in, and held him by the hips as Elio resumed their pace, this time with their positions inverted, fucking himself on Oliver, fast, fast, and faster.

Until he couldn’t take it anymore and, when Oliver pulled himself up to sitting so that they could kiss, he moaned inside his mouth, and came, a long, intense shiver shaking his whole body. 

He felt exhausted after that and so he let Oliver move him again, again laying him back on the bed, opening his thighs, pushing inside him once more to seek his own release, and it hurt so beautifully deep inside, so raw and defenceless, that Elio arched back his neck again and felt hot tears stream down the corners of his eyes, into his temples, and down to the bedsheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little smut for your Sunday! 
> 
> We are nearly at the end....


	21. Chapter 21

They held hands, the next morning, as they walked to the patio for breakfast.

Oliver did not feel self-conscious about it, not even for a moment. As his pads touched Elio’s slender fingers, as they caressed his skin while he led the younger man outside, he had to steel himself not to smile as wide as ever, not to look like he was high - because high, he was, on the boy right next to him, on the young man whom he’d spent the night with, finally, with permission, with intent, after so many years apart.

They sat at the table, side by side, but they were hardly interested in coffee or food. Nobody else was around, and so Oliver wrapped an arm around Elio’s body, kissed his temple, the side of his neck, making him turn towards him so he could kiss his mouth. Elio’s mouth, that tasted both like sin and like heaven to him, soft and full and red like forbidden fruit, and Oliver didn’t think he’d be able to ever stop kissing it. Not when he had him right there, not when Elio moaned gently and opened his lips to let the kiss deepen, to make it last longer. Fuck, but Oliver wanted to bite him. To keep him for himself, to pull him against his chest and hold his hair tight and not let him move. To just listen to his breathing and his gentle moans and feel the warmth of his body.

Yet, a noise from the house caught his attention, and Oliver pulled back gently to look - Samuel was there, just by the window door, a cup of coffee in his hand and a pleased smile on his face.

“Don’t stop on behalf of my dad,” Elio murmured on his mouth, his voice low and sultry, his eyes closed.

“But, Elio-“ Oliver started, half-heartedly protesting - how could they just make out like teenagers right in front of Elio’s father?

“He can hardly speak. I know he and mom spent the night together. So.”

Oliver closed his eyes, set his jaw - too much information! - but the corners of his mouth wanted to pull up in a smile which was just as pleased as the one on Samuel’s face.

“Oh no no, don’t let me disturb you, lovebirds!” Samuel said then, waving a hand, taking two steps towards the table, his voice upbeat and carefree. “Do keep going. I’m just here to take some croissants for my wife.”

And just like he said, Samuel grabbed a couple of pastries and waved at them again, disappearing inside the house.

When Oliver looked back at Elio, his face warm, the boy was smiling, and shaking his head.

“See? Told you! Now, where were we...”

He reached out, kissing Oliver’s smiling lips again, his hand stroking down Oliver’s chest, to his waist, down between his legs. 

It didn’t take long for Oliver to become hard, at all; and he struggled to keep his groans quiet as Elio touched and stroked him, Oliver’s sex straining, skin on skin contact all that was needed now. 

“Can we come back to breakfast later,” Oliver panted against the side of Elio’s neck, his eyes closed. As a reply, Elio held him tighter, his hand on him quickened; and Oliver groaned again, bit the delicate skin of Elio’s throat right where his lips were pressed against. With effort he stood, pushing Elio gently towards the house, praying that neither Samuel nor Annella were about to come outside and catch him like that, hard in his pants.

They made it to the door, before they were kissing again. 

Oliver had never known desire like that. 

He pushed Elio back against the wall; held his face with the palm of one hand, the other hand sneaking down the boy’s back, two fingers disappearing under the waistband of Elio’s shorts to look for his entrance, that precious secret place. When he found it, and when his fingers started pushing in, finding tight warmth and wetness from the night before, making Elio cry out in his mouth and tremble, tensing beautifully, that’s when Oliver knew that it was time to seek the privacy of their room once again. 

“We haven’t talked about what’s going to happen,” Elio said later, speaking softly as they were catching their breaths, after sex, laying side by side and face to face on their messy bed.

“What do you want to happen?” Oliver murmured back. His palm still on Elio’s cheek, his thumb stroking the skin there. 

Elio swallowed.

“I’ve got my work, back in Paris. I’m still teaching until - until October, at least.”

Oliver nodded.

“And even if - and even if I gave that up, I haven’t really thought - where I would go, if maybe - back to Italy? Or, I don’t know. Somewhere else.” He bit his lower lip, shrugged minutely, but his eyebrows were creased into a frown.

Oliver sighed.

“Well,” he stroked a curl back from Elio’s forehead. “I’ve left Columbia. I’ve - left my apartment. I was going to go back to New England, but...”

Elio blinked. “But...?”

“But, I mean,” and here Oliver chuckled, but it sounded a little uncertain. “I don’t have to. I don’t have a job, yet. Maybe you don’t have to give up anything. Maybe - maybe I can - I don’t know. Come to you, instead?”

“You’d move to Paris??” Elio’s eyes had gone wide as saucers, and it made Oliver chuckle. He felt so young, so carefree.

“I’ve always wondered if I should try. I will need to improve my French, granted, but perhaps this is the right time, and-“

“Oh my god, yes!” Elio’s smile was so wide it was basically ear to ear, and he burrowed his face into Oliver’s chest, into his neck, pushed his whole body into Oliver’s as if he wanted to mould the both of them into each other. Oliver hugged him, laughing gently.

“God, it would be so wonderful. Yes, please, yes!” Elio continued, his voice trembling out of enthusiasm.

“And I was thinking, also, that being in Paris would make it easier for us to come visit your parents,” Oliver pulled back a little, looked into Elio’s glittering eyes. “You know. Now that they’re back together.”

Elio’s smile was even wider, even brighter then. And it was the most beautiful thing Oliver had ever seen.

“I love you,” Elio said, smiling, smiling.

“I love you,” Oliver replied. 

The same smile on his face; looking forward to a life that wasn’t going to be half-lived anymore, but lived to the full, with Elio by his side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are at the end!
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who’s been reading and commenting on this story - I’m so grateful!  
> I hope I was able to provide an acceptable alternative (or fill the gaps) to what Andre wrote in the new book. 
> 
> Thank you so much again for all your love. And please, as always, let me know what you thought! Xx


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